


Reparo!

by stabbyunicorn



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stabbyunicorn/pseuds/stabbyunicorn
Summary: In which Taylor is depressed, and doesn’t care if bug powers don’t make her a witch. Even if she were… some things can’t be fixed with a spell.⚠️ Depression, Anxiety





	1. Matters of Wands

It doesn’t matter. You know? It doesn’t.

* * *

There were a few weeks of summer left, and I had a plan.

The school didn’t listen to me. Why would they? I was a problem student with no friends whose grades were slipping. I wince as I think about last year’s finals. You’d be disappointed in me, I know. It’s part of why I chose this plan. I could make you proud, and maybe I could get the school to trust me, even just a little.

They definitely don’t trust me now. After all, as a problem student, why wouldn’t I lob accusations at those more popular than me? Even _were_ I being bullied— _especially_ if I were being bullied—would I not lash out at the biggest targets?

What reason did the school have to trust my word? Even if they’d wanted to, what would they gain from bothering?

So, the plan. It was July. A bit late, but there was still time enough.

I’d always buried myself in books for hours on end. Now, it became hours endless.

How many orbitals in the second shell? A sphere and… I checked my notes again.

Then I switched to math. The slope, as the distance between points on the curve approaches zero…

How’s my vocabulary? I worked this morning’s words into a single paragraph:

> As they broke the merrythought, they reflected upon the munificence of the elder Scrooge, a man who, while historically lacking in bonhomie, had deigned not only to give them this very turkey, and the wine with it—they were hardly gastronomes nor oenophiles, but they were fairly certain these were very fine indeed—but also to festoon their home in wreathes and beautiful flowers, ending the feud between the families with an irenic grace, before leaving for France with what seemed to be a heartfelt valediction.

Art, now.

The crosshatching could be improved, but my pen drawing of Hermione Granger was, at least, somewhat passable. I stopped myself, giving my head a little shake and punching it lightly by the ear. I needed to switch back to the more concrete classes before I lost myself— if not in the art, then in the pointless escape of fiction.

My hand stroked the wand you’d made for me. Well, you’d found it. It was just a stick. You’d cut off a twig or two jutting from it, and we’d pretended we were in the wizarding world. We’d cast Patronus charms and levitate feathers: I remember you tying a string onto a feather you’d not let me touch, for fear of diseases it might carry, and as I had waved the wand, you’d moved the feather. It had been magical.

Before I’d had this plan, I’d spent nearly all the time I could online. There were so many stories. Stories in which Harry could change things. In which he could make a difference. He could matter, matter more than he had in the books, books in which so often things happened to or around him, but never by him. Most of the stories weren’t great. Some were decent. A few were something beyond, something even you might be impressed by.

I’d had to go to the library to read. I’d spent hours upon hours. You’d never have let me, I know. It was a waste.

It wasn’t real. I know that. It never would be, however much I’d wished. As much there was in this world which appeared to be magic, all that seeming magic was more concrete than the fantastic nature of that book series: Parahumans. Humans with paranormal powers.

The closest we had to wizards and witches was Myrddin. But he wasn’t the same. Even if he were, I wasn’t Myrddin. I was Taylor Hebert. Not a great witch or wizard. Not a witch or wizard at all. Just a girl. Your girl, once.

But girl though I was, some things were still in my control. I could do well in classes, like you’d want me to. I couldn’t compete athletically, but I could compete scholastically, and, although Winslow may not have much in the way of extracurriculars, there was a debate club in which I could participate.

I could do more. Be more. It could be enough: I could just see it.

* * *

A cheater, they said, without using the words.

I’d worked hard, until the work was all I knew. It had been my life, from July through October. I gave everything. I did everything you would have wanted and more, and sometimes, I did so much, I even forgot about you, and when I remembered, I didn’t let myself cry. There was no time for tears.

It hadn’t felt like cheating.

Nothing changed.

* * *

I punched Sophia, and a thrill of something indescribable flew through me. I’d read up on how to throw a punch. I’d set up a spot in the basement and practiced. I’d practiced punching, kicking, and elbowing. I know it probably isn’t what you’d have wanted, but I know that if I was going to do it, you’d have wanted me to do it right: _go for the sensitive areas,_ you’d once told me.

Instead, I went for her nose. You’d told me I’d hurt my hand, but I wanted to feel it crunch.

And I did: the cartilage gave way beneath my hands, and through the adrenaline I didn’t feel the pain in my knuckles. It should have been enough. She was an athlete, but she wasn’t trained to fight. It would be enough, finally, to make—

She laughed. The blood was dripping down onto her lips and into her open mouth, and she laughed.

I tried to punch her again, but she twisted out of the way. I dodged a shove and kicked at her, but again she moved, laughing more and more.

* * *

I waited a week for her to report me. She didn’t. Hadn’t needed to.

She still tripped me down the stairs the next day. I twisted something wrong. I didn’t tell dad. We couldn’t afford the hospital.

* * *

Emma was saying something. I only caught a few key words, here and there. Something about how I was pathetic. Another about you being disappointed in me. I tried to focus.

“Disappointed in me, Emma?” I asked, my voice shaking in spite of my practice. Practice with a mirror can only take you so far. “I thought she was practically your Aunt? I think we both know who she’d _really_ be disappointed in.”

I said the words. I didn’t really feel them.

I know who you’d _really_ be disappointed in. I couldn’t even talk with Emma properly.

A deep breath, and I pressed on.

“You’re really quite obsessed, aren’t you, Emma?” I asked her. “I know you must be going through a lot of confusing feelings, but that’s no reason to take it out on me. It’s sad, really. You’ll never have a chance with me, you know. Not anymore.”

The words should have been perfect. Should have elicited some reaction. Should have _hurt._ Emma had always been just a tad homophobic. Perhaps more than a tad. What everyone else would see as a spat between two former girlfriends, Emma would see as me calling her gay. And I was, because she was, and so was I. Gayness didn’t care if you or your friend were homophobic.

She should have been devastated.

The smug smile did lose its smugness, but it did not vanish. Instead of anger, she just shrugged. She said something. The words sounded so easy. I didn’t catch them.

She turned and walked away.

* * *

The gossip didn’t really change. I was still the loser, but now I was also the jealous ex.

Emma didn’t stop her assault. Her quips didn’t change. She was the same. Always the same.

* * *

She destroyed the flute. At least I hadn’t brought the wand to school.

I should have been better. Could have been.

But I promise I won’t let you down again.

* * *

It was Sunday.

I woke early. Tossed some bacon in a pan. Took them from pan to paper towel. Tossed some more in. And again.

Poured most the grease into a jar. Put the jar in the freezer. The rest I left in the pan.

Tossed in a half-dozen eggs. Some salt, some peppers. A couple of pieces of tomato. Some cheese.

Flip.

Got a tray. It’d be lucky we had one, had I not checked that we did last night.

Eggs and bacon onto plate. Orange juice into glass. Plate and glass onto tray.

I crept upstairs, tray in hand.

Knocked on the door.

* * *

I repeated this for four weekends. I made dinners, too, on the weekdays. Talked my dad’s ears off. Enough words to reach him, somehow.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” he’d say, sometimes, before I’d return to my room to work on an art project or another.

He never really said more.

I didn’t stop, anyway. You wouldn’t want me to.

* * *

The locker.

* * *

I can make a difference, Mom: I have a power! Not the most fanciful. Nothing so flashy as flight, strength, or lasers, but still: it’s mine!

Bugs.

Armor was easy. Spiders wove silk into a suit tailor-made for me, so to speak.

It took time to prepare. Nearly three months time. But I was nearly ready.

Finally, after a particularly nasty day at school, after my art project—a model of Gringotts—was destroyed…

I wasn’t waiting any longer. Ready or not, I was going out. I was going to make a difference.

* * *

Lung.

* * *

My spiders had bit him everywhere. I’d tried to concentrate them on his most vulnerable areas. I’d tried to get them to inject all the venom they could. I don’t know if I succeeded.

His roar suggested I had. He grew so big.

He must have seen me in the shadows, or heard my breathing, or smelled something: he spun around and stared right at me. I hadn’t moved an inch. I still couldn’t.

He leapt. The building shook as he landed upon it, and I fell over backwards, barely catching myself, propping myself with an arm as I stared up at him.

All I could see was scales and flame, and a scale-covered arm raising. I tried to reach for something. There was nothing on my belt. There was nothing laying on the ground beside me.

A clawed hand hit my side.

I flew into a wall.

I’m sorry. I tried.

* * *

When I woke, Lung was gone. Everything was quiet but for the crackling of some flames in the distance.

I could barely move, but I managed it.

It took me an hour to get home.

* * *

It doesn’t matter. You know? It doesn’t.

I’ve got a power, but it doesn’t matter. Not like it’s flight, strength, or lasers, or anything useful. Just bugs. Nothing that matters.

It hadn’t mattered to Lung. He’d burnt the bugs. They hadn’t gotten more than a roar out of him. Hadn’t mattered. He’d gotten away.

I’d tried to protect whatever kids Lung was after. They were probably some teen capes playing at heroes or villains, but if Lung’s rambling had been anything to go by, they were still kids. Had I protected them? Or had Lung gone on to kill them? I don’t know. The news spoke of a rampage; PHO mentioned Lung was pissed.

I should care. You’d want me to care.

But why? I could care all I want. It wouldn’t matter. It would never be enough to matter.

Nothing.

I felt nothing.

And then I felt a flash of something. Frustration. Rebellion. I should care. I should! I couldn’t just stop!

I screamed.

And then I remembered where I was.

Gladly’s.

I ran. The class wasn’t over. It didn’t matter.

* * *

I wouldn’t live long. I’d attacked Lung. He’d find me. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps he’d sniff me out. Perhaps he’d find home. It should matter to me.

That itch of rebellion twisted again, but stilled.

I stopped walking. Where was I?

Brick buildings. An older area of town. Perhaps just west of the Docks. Not the best part of town. Not the worst. Just northwest of ABB territory. Had I walked all the way here?

The buildings were old warehouses, lined up nice and in a row on either side of Murphy street, whose sidewalks were beginning to crumble. There was a traffic light ahead. Twenty-first street?

I didn’t bother look at the sky.

I sighed.

I was so done.

The brick walls were just slightly uneven. It had that slightly surreal quality, that taste of something more I’d always liked from the Potter books.

I’d tempted fate today. Brought the wand. I could feel it in my backpack. It was just short enough not to jut out the top.

Perhaps I’d wanted Emma to find it. She’d have taken great glee in snapping one of my last connections to…

I extricated it from the bag, a silly feeling coming over me.

Wand touched wall: three up, two across. I tapped three times.

Nothing happened, of course. Why would it? Silly.

I wished it would.

I’d thought I could be a cape. Had things been different, perhaps I’d still be trying. You and Dad always did tell me I never gave up, never ever.

Never ever.

That spark of rebellion stirred again.

It was interrupted by voices from inside the building. The voices were unexpected. These warehouses were rarely used. I think they belonged to the city. Used for emergency supplies, in case an Endbringer hit somewhere nearby: if an Endbringer hit Brockton Bay itself, there likely wouldn’t be enough of a city left for the supplies to matter.

The voices were gruff.

I didn’t bother sneak as I made my way around the corner of the building and over to a window to hear better. The window was several feet off the ground, and but a foot or two high. It was cracked open, just an inch. The water stains on the jam showed it had been open quite awhile.

The voices were talking money and grams. Drugs, no doubt.

It could be fun. The drugs? The money? The fight? I wasn’t sure which I wanted. You’d— well, never mind about you. They’d probably kill me, but I’d be dead soon, either way.

And there were so many bugs here, enough that, if bugs mattered, perhaps I’d feel something more.

If I hit the window, they’d come look. If I then hid, they’d have to come outside to investigate. I could reach them, then. Logical enough.

Then again, maybe I just felt like breaking the window of an abandoned warehouse. After all, I could just knock on the door by which my swarm was already swelling.

The window was too high up for me to reach and break myself. I needed a tool. The crumbling sidewalk obliged.

I picked up a chunk. It fit nicely in the palm of my hand. In my other I still held the wand. The stick, really.

A silly thought went through me, and I giggled. I wasn’t quite prepared for the feeling, numb as I’d been feeling. But amusement was as nice a feeling to feel as any, and without that much time left…

As the thought had humored me, I decided to do the same to it in turn.

“Reducto!” I shouted with a giggle, giving the wand a couple sharp flicks, and with my other hand I lobbed the spell through the window.

The window smashed with a crash that sent me from a numb unfeeling to a shivering excitement in but an instant.

I heard yells from inside. Quickly I dashed around the corner, and no sooner had I rounded it than the door slammed open.

“Expelliarmus!” I said, twirling the wand tip in a small spiral, another silly giggle escaping. I didn’t even know if the movement was correct, but I didn’t care. A swarm of flying bugs—I don’t even know what kinds—made up my spell, and slammed into their wrists. A knife dropped from one’s hand. A gun dropped from the other’s.

It discharged with a loud bang. For a moment, I was disoriented. It was a rather pleasant sort of unpleasant sensation. I didn’t want to reorient, but I had another “spell” to cast.

“Stupefy!” I yelled with vicious glee, slashing the wand downwards. A swarm of bugs leapt at their faces, hammering at their mouths. Why? There was a another much easier way just north, was there not?

The swarm shifted. The men screamed.

The screams were cut off as the bugs wormed up their noses and down their throats. The men clawed at their faces, stuffed their hands into their mouths, coughed and wheezed. They fell to their knees as they tried to do something, do anything.

I smiled. Their efforts wouldn’t be enough.

After a few moments, the men stilled, and the bugs crawled out.

My breath was racing. My heart pounding. The exhilarated thrill rushed through me, and I felt, again, alive.

I stepped forward a bit uneasily, unsure if I intended to go inside or to search the two men.

But… why not?

My thoughts were becoming more jumbled and giggly, but I didn’t really care.

“Accio!” I said. I barely flicked the wand. The bugs streamed away from me anyway.

Some went inside. Some went to the men.

I felt myself stumble. My hand went to my stomach.

Oh. I was bleeding. The blood was staining the wand in my hand. I should care. You gave it to me. You remember, don’t you? But I couldn’t bring myself to care, nor remember.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know how this would end. Wasn’t like I was surprised.

I found myself laughing, and more blood poured from me.

My body tipped over as I collapsed to my knees. One of my hands—the one holding the wand, the one covered in blood—grasped at the ground and caught me.

Another laugh.

“Episkey!” I giggled, not bothering point or wave the wand. Nothing happened, of course. The swarm didn’t even twitch. It made no move to cease its efforts.

I could see the line of bugs carrying bill after bill of money. More bugs carrying bag after bag of drugs. They made it look so natural. Ah yes, the Antimonious Extra Largus, often found in nature carrying its prey—the elusive twenty dollar bill—in teams of four.

My laughs grew louder. The pool of blood grew wider. I think my face was laying in it. There was something warm on my cheeks. Another giggle. Were the ants even ants? Maybe they were roaches. Or beetles! Beetles were cool.

“Oh. My. God!” I heard, somewhere above me.

God, indeed. Had he existed, I’d be meeting him soon.

I wondered if God was made of bugs. Or maybe he ate bug sandwiches. That made more sense, yes.

More laughs. A strange feeling about my shoulders and waist.

And everything was quiet.

I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll see you soon.


	2. Brandishing Bears

“—a villain, and even if—”

Why do you sound strange?

“—I don’t do—and she was—the drugs, too—”

There were drugs here, too? I’d thought…

“—just—”

Why did it hurt?

“Fine.”

The pain faded, and so did I.

* * *

I tried to touch my stomach, and woke as my hand caught on something. My eyes snapped open.

A room. Small. There were far too many pillows, all piled unceremoniously upon a couple of chairs inconveniently far away, both by the window, through which a gentle ambient light struggled to shine, covered as it was by a sheer white fabric.

Where was my wand?

I sat up. Or, rather, I tried to. Halfway up my arm caught, again. I could feel it now. Something around my wrist: a thick strip of plastic. Another strip was looped from that, and another from that, forming a chain of plastic terminating somewhere beneath the bed. And something was on my—

“She should be awake already, _Mom_ ,” said a voice. It was somewhat whiny and annoying, and it was easy to tell the word ‘Mom’ had been delivered with a sneer. “Had you let me raise the level of sedative, she’d—”

“Have you considered, _Amy_ ,” came another voice, older, yet somehow with the same condescending tone as the first, “that I want to _talk_ with the girl?”

“Just fucking give her to the Protectorate,” said Amy, the first voice. They were getting closer. I was still trying to understand where I was. I reached a hand up towards my fa—

I started as I saw two giant eyes staring at me, but it was just a teddy bear. A creepy teddy bear, but just a teddy bear, sitting upon a dresser immediately across the bed.

The second voice sighed an eternally suffering sigh. “Amy…”

The door—white-painted wood, maybe, or perhaps that odd material made to look like wood—squeaked open, allowing another slice of light to illuminate the room.

I tried to sit again, scooting back in the bed to keep my hand in range of the cuffs. I then realized my other hand was free. I wondered if I could break the zip ties. You’d once— well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been wondering how you’d even ended up— but, it didn’t matter. Stories didn’t matter.

I let myself slide back down the bed as they entered.

“Hello,” said the older one, her face with a few more dignified wrinkles than typical for her age—attractive, really, but less attractive for the worry that probably caused them.

“Are you E88, bug girl? Or maybe a Merchant hitting your own?” asked the younger, her face hiding slightly behind her frizzy brown hair.

I could answer, but instead, I laugh. Through the laughter, I don’t quite make out the older woman admonishing the girl. Both looked oddly familiar, and hadn’t the older one called the girl ‘Amy?’

“Or maybe you’re just crazy,” muttered Amy. “Sorry,” she says, with a mocking voice eerily reminiscent of Madison, “I can’t fix _that_ for you.”

Should her words bother me? I don’t know, really. Maybe there’s nothing actually biting behind them, in spite of her tone. It’s somehow so easy to do just let it wash over me, as you’d no doubt tell m—

Another sigh from the mother. I had the feeling she did that often. “We have some questions for you. It would be best if you could remain calm. If you cannot, it is possible that Amy may have to sedate you. Do you feel yourself capable of answering?”

There was a tiny inkling to laugh, again. But there wasn’t really anything all that funny, and all that came out was a shrug.

“You should just drop me somewhere,” I say. “Maybe ABB territory. Make it easy for them.”

The mom raised an eyebrow. “You’re with the ABB?”

I shook my head slowly, my eyes strangely entranced within the teddy bear’s. “I’m not with anyone,” I said, slowly. My voice sounded strange, and I could almost put my finger upon why. “I’m just a dead girl walking. Or lying down, really.”

The joke fell flat, as I couldn’t have been bothered to instill the proper inflections to carry it.

Another raised eyebrow. I wondered, given the asymmetry of the wrinkles above her eyes, if she raised her brows nearly as often as she sighed.

“I attacked Lung,” I said, my face suddenly, unexpectedly breaking out in a giant grin at the absurdity of it, at the futility of the battle, at everything, really. “Only a matter of time before he finds me, you know.”

“Are you Parahuman, then?” asked the older woman.

I didn’t answer for a moment, my grin fading a bit, leaving me with an odd feeling on my cheeks. I’m not sure what I was thinking, or if I was thinking.

“Something better,” I said at last, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “I’m a _witch._ ”

She blinked. I got the feeling she did not do _that_ often.

“She _is_ insane,” muttered Amy.

I smiled widely again at their reactions. I’m sure you’d— well, you’re not here to tell me what to take seriously.

“A witch,” said the older woman.

I nodded, grinning widely again. But the grin slowly faded from my face, replaced with something else; it doesn’t matter what. You’d— shut up. Just… shut up.

“And does this witch have a name?” she asked. “My name is Brandish. I’m also known as Carol Dallon. Amy and I are part of ‘New Wave.’”

So that’s why they seemed familiar. I’d probably seen them on the something or other. This could be their home, I guessed. Or it may not have been. Maybe this room was one of theirs. One of them might like creepy teddy bears. Probably Amy. Or maybe not. Or maybe it didn’t matt—

They were looking at me, expectantly. My breath came reluctantly, and it took an effort to force out the words.

“Taylor,” I said.

Something shifted in Brandish’s face, moving just slightly backwards. Was my name unusual? I wouldn’t know. You’d picked— oh, forget it.

“She means cape name, dumbass,” said Amy.

“Amy!” exclaimed Brandish. Amy’s face remained blank. I supposed mine matched her. I don’t know if I liked being similar to her. I suppose I should. She’s _Panacea._

“Vicky put a mask on you,” she continued.

Oh. So that’s what was on my face. I may have started to wonder, a few times. I didn’t remember. I was reasonably sure it was a domino mask, covering my cheeks across the tip of my nose, and reaching up to my forehead.

I started to reach a hand up to my face, but it never reached.

“Vicky?” I heard myself ask, somewhere in the distance. What good did the mask do, really? Did it do anything to disguise my smell? It would do nothing to save me from Lung.

“Yes, _Vicky,_ ” said Amy. “We were going to Bertrand’s for some after-school ice cream when some feaking lunatic decided to go after some Merchants and got themselves shot, and of course, I _had_ to heal them. Oh, my day was fine, thanks for—”

“Amy…” said Brandish, quietly, but her eyes did not move from me. Maybe I’d been supposed to react. There was something in Brandish’s eyes. A spark of recognition, a hint of guardedness, I didn’t know. I could have figured it out, but didn’t.

“Probably a villain,” muttered Amy.

I felt myself blink slowly. I should probably—

“I’d have to…” I started. I shrugged, to cut myself off. But I couldn’t muster the effort to stop myself from saying it, anyway. “I’d have to matter, first, you know.”

This time, Amy blinked. Brandish did not. Her eyes still hadn’t moved from me. Her lips did something odd, and she breathed out a strange breath, and I didn’t care to know what any of it meant, no matter how important you’d said it was to watch body language, and I wanted to feel bad about it, but I couldn’t do that, either, and I wanted to feel bad about not feeling bad, but—

Amy muttered something, her face losing some its antagonism, a look similar to the one Brandish had held briefly crossing it. She sighed, and the look was gone, replaced with irritation. “She could _still_ be a villain.”

“Do you have a cape name?” asked Brandish, her voice quiet but still firm.

I didn’t say anything for a long while. Instead, I stared at the bear.

Suddenly, the bear was moving. It slammed into my face. Had I accidentally summoned it? It was an odd thought, and I knew it wasn’t—

“Just have it, then,” said Amy, sitting back down. Well, if she wanted to think she’d thrown it, that was fine. I still had the bear, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted it. My free arm curled around it. _You_ never gave me a bear, so I guess Amy’s better than you. I laugh a little, but a tear comes out instead.

“I’m nobody,” I said, my voice muffled in the teddy bear’s fabric. I hadn’t realized how big it was. Or I might be small. But people said I was tall. Whatever.

“I’m afraid ‘Nobody’ is taken by a Stranger in Oklahoma,” said Brandish. Her voice had a hint of somesuch in it, and out the corner of my eye I could see her lips had tugged sideways just a bit like blah blah. Shut up.

I nuzzle my nose into the bear. I suppose I was shaking my head. “I don’t have a name.”

Brandish sighed. Amy did too, but hers was more irritated. I’m irritating, I guess. Stop being irritating, Taylor. Just stop. Just…

“Hermione, I guess,” I said, finally, forcing the word out. I wished I could be Hermione. She’d always fixed things, one way or another.

“Hermione, then. Can you tell me what you were doing this afternoon?”

No.

I don’t know.

I don’t want to know.

I didn’t.

I.

Sigh.

“Hermione?” asked Brandish. “Taylor?” she added, after a moment, more quietly.

I breathed in like I was going to speak, and found words exiting my lips. “School. Winslow. I screamed. I forgot I was in class.”

I heard Brandish shift slightly. “Did you remain in class?”

“No,” I said.

“Where did you go after class?”

Nowhere.

I didn’t know.

Somewhere.

I shrugged.

“Did you go to the Docks Industrial Parks?” she asked.

I felt myself blink. The what? My head moved back from the bear a bit as I looked at Brandish.

“The Warehouses?” I asked.

“The warehouses, as you say, are located in the Docks, on the West side. Blocks of warehouses alternating with various industrial buildings, often now out-of-use, and which often themselves resemble warehouses. You were found in front of one such building. I believe it had something to do with textiles, which is unusual, as Brockton Bay was never known for textiles.”

There was an odd lilt to her voice as she said it. I was supposed to find it funny, I thought, whether because Brockton Bay was, in fact, known for textiles, or because it wasn’t, or because it was an inane aside, I didn’t know. Someone would want me to laugh politely, regardless of the joke’s humor, but I didn’t want to acknowledge that someone. Yo—

“Is that where you went, Hermione?” she asked, again.

I tried to look at her, but couldn’t, so my eyes returned to the bear’s.

“I just walked,” I said. “I don’t know. Fifteen minutes. An hour. Just walked, you know.”

“And—”

“Where’s my wand?” I asked.

A moment’s pause. I heard Brandish stand. Something shifted on the table beside me. I tried to look. I didn’t.

I felt something nudge at my hand. I grabbed it. It was familiar: wooden, the handle smoothened by the oil of skin repeatedly rubbing against it. The wand.

“What happened then?” asked Brandish, sitting back down.

“I heard voices. It was a drug deal, I think,” I said. “Thought I might as well interrupt.”

I held up the wand, and realized my hand was no longer restrained, although it still had a single loop of zip-tie around it. I passed the wand to my dominant hand, trading it for the bear. There was something in the air, buzzing through me.

“Might as well?” asked Brandish. I didn’t want to think about the tone in her voice. I didn’t want people using that tone with me, I don’t, not them, not _you_ , you lost that right when you fucking died—

“Not like it matters, anyway,” I snapped, sitting up angrily.

“It does,” said Brandish, her voice quiet, and again the annoying tone, that pity, that fucking _concern_ , I can’t handle it, I can’t, I can’t, I— “Of course it does.” —can’t.

“Are _you_ going to say anything?” I snap at Amy. She didn’t.

I roll off the other side of the bed, one arm still hugging the bear. Brandish shifts, perhaps to move.

Too bad. I’m already at the window. I shove it open.

Second floor. Oh well. I hear Brandish yell something, and a sigh from Amy.

“Aresto Momentum!” I say, wiggling the wand, and I jump out.

* * *

The charm broke my fall, not the teddy bear. But I still liked the bear, even if it was creepy.

I realized I didn’t have my backpack. What was I going to do with it, anyway? Bludgeon Lung with it? Speaking of Lung: maybe I should find him. Maybe he’d make it nice and quick.

I wasn’t a failure enough to lead him home, which meant, ironically, I probably had to _go_ home. I couldn’t confront him without a mask.

Oh. I _have_ a mask. The Dallons put one one me. Well, that’s fine, then. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem the Dallons lived near the Docks.

I ducked behind a house, and then behind another. I thought I saw someone fly overhead. It was probably one of them.

I lifted my wand and twirled it about my head. Either the disillusionment charm worked, or some bugs squashed themselves like an egg beneath my fist. But the charm was hardly perfect, so I kept close to trees, darting from one to the next, allowing myself to blend in with falling leaves and flying bugs.

There were probably dozens of spells useful as distractions, but I couldn’t think of them. All the ones I _could_ think of would just draw attention to me. Unless I could somehow send up sparks _over there_ …

I flicked the wand, and two houses over a sea of bugs swirled into a strange sort of whirlwind. I’d tried for sparks, but maybe my wand was weird. Well, that wasn’t _my_ fault: _I_ hadn’t made it.

* * *

It took me the better part of an hour to reach the Docks, I assumed, but I didn’t have my watch, or if I did, I hadn’t bothered check it.

I wasn’t sure if I should shout for Lung, or just ask around. Casual-like, you know. ‘Do you know where Lung hangs out, by any chance? Six feet high, all muscly, wears a mask?’

Well, I’d tried to get myself to laugh at the thought.

There were sounds of violence echoing in the distance. Bangs, shouts, and roars. Good of a direction as any, really.

I realized I’d reached the noises when a burst of flame failed to scorch me. It passed just a foot in front of me, burning a hot white. I felt it singe the hairs on my left arm. It might have been two feet in front of me. Maybe three. It was very hot, though.

Midnight blue armor flew by. It didn’t look like it was flying on its own power. My head turned to look in the direction from which it had flown.

Ah. Lung.

I wasn’t sure I really wanted to face him, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t. And I didn’t want him to find me at home. So, I raised the wand. Thankfully, for all the singed hairs on my hand and arm, the wand hadn’t been damaged. It’d still probably get burnt into nothingness, tonight, but then again, so would I.

How does one fight a dragon? I wish I knew a sleeping spell. A spell? Really? How fanciful. Then again, there’s a dragon advancing towards me, and that’s fanciful, too.

He passed by me. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t matter. I saw the blue armor leap to its feet as Lung approached.

“Imperio!” I said, with a shrug, waving my wand all ‘round me. The bugs answered. There were some nicely poisonous spiders. I had flying bugs try to lift them.

Lung dodged a halberd’s attack, then another, then tried to swat it away, but it dodged him. He pulled back a giant, clawed fist. Then he roared. The spiders must have reached the sensitive spots, again, though something felt odd about them, if sensitive spots could feel odd through spiders’ senses.

“Stupefy,” I said, more a sigh than a command. Still, something seemed to stream at Lung, and it almost seemed to come from the wand, satisfying, at least a little, at least for a tiny bit of a second, that fanciful feeling.

The stream swarmed around his face, and wasted no time finding his nose. He roared. An explosion of fire blasted from him. I felt many bugs die, but there seemed to be nearly as many bugs inside him, too, all in his airways. Oh. Right, I guess I… Well, I could just say it was odd my spells kept working through bugs.

Lung clawed at his face. He might have been trying to tear it off, I thought, but it was hard to tell.

The halberd stabbed into the bottom of his jaw.

Oh. Halberd. Probably Armsmaster, then.

I should be happy. Maybe I wouldn't die, I thought, as Lung’s movements slowed. My right arm was still wrapped around the bear. I hadn’t realized. Its back was a bit worse for wear, with some blackening around the tips of fuzz.

I should be happy, I thought, as the bugs crawled out from Lung’s mouth and nose, and, I realized with a slight shudder, one from his ear.

I should be.

You’d…

But I don’t care what you’d want.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a few times in my life, depression has hit me rather hard. At many other times, it hit me more gently. At still others, I refuse to acknowledge that it hit me at all. At others, I’ve been fine.
> 
> This story takes some of what I felt during those times, and extrapolates in some odd ways. I doubt it is accurate to any real degree, but it’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be a metaphor for my own desire to escape reality, to just give in and give up and stop worrying, stop caring, stop making decisions, to just _stop_ doing anything I don’t immediately need to do in order to survive. It’s not a pretty desire, and thankfully, it doesn’t hit hard all that often. It just buzzes around like a swarm of flies, occasionally landing on me and harassing me.
> 
> In this story, it hits Taylor hard. And she keeps trying not to give in. But she can’t not. And she hates herself for it, and it just makes it all the harder. And so, she keeps acting out her fantasy, waiting, almost eagerly, until it bites her.
> 
> But maybe, by the time it does, she won’t want it to, anymore.


	3. The Shadow’s Blood

“You gonna…” Armsmaster began as he looked up from Lung’s body, now encased in a steel cage, only to trail off as his visor-covered gaze seemed to meet mine. His mouth opened again as his head shifted to take in the teddy bear still held within my arm.

“You’re not Parian,” he said, slowly. Who was Parian, and why would they be fighting Lung? “You’re…”

He trailed off. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to respond.

My lips opened, although my mouth didn’t really. After a moment, they closed again. I wanted to say something, and I didn’t, and so, I instead looked at the flames still burning on the street. I thought about looking at the melting asphalt, or the smashed car, or the broken windows of the nearby office building, but my eyes didn’t stray.

“You’re a new face,” I thought he said, his gaze still fixed on me. I wished he’d fix it somewhere else. I wanted to shrink. My knees felt strange.

My eyes finally moved from the fire and onto Lung. He was just… laying there, still and serene, the firelight flickering across the burnt tatters that were left of his clothing, and across the skin beneath them.

My feet slowly pulled me towards him.

“What is your name?” asked Armsmaster, shifting as I approached. I thought he might reach for his halberd, but he did not.

My pace slowed. I shrugged. I felt myself look away. “Hermione, I guess.”

Armsmaster nodded. I heard him mutter something, maybe not to me, quiet against bangs sounding somewhere a few blocks away. He didn’t seem to notice the sounds.

I started walking, again, almost convincing myself Lung’s body was growing... I had to see him. I had to. I could feel safe, then, I told myself. I could…

He was still so very big, even unconscious, even with his powers no longer active. Tall…

“Do you need a hospital, Hermione?” Arsmaster asked, slowly, and a bit too gently. I heard small clinks of armor as his footsteps approached behind me.

I circled the cage. It didn’t reach a foot off the ground, and left only room for the rise and fall of Lung’s chest as he breathed. He was still breathing, I realized, and there was an empty space in my chest where a thought or feeling should have been at the realization.

“He won’t rise,” said Armsmaster. “You are safe, Hermione.”

Again, his voice was too quiet. Too gentle. He’s Armsmaster. He shouldn’t know how to _do_ gentle.

He didn’t stop me as I knelt down beside Lung. He didn’t even stop me as I poked my wand up his chin, through which was punctured an almost inch-wide hole. It was still bleeding, although only gently.

“He was too big,” said Armsmaster, somewhere behind me, as I watched the blood coat the surface of the wand. “The tranquilizers had to be administered into his brain. The chin was the most effective avenue to reach it. Look.”

I heard him messing with the Halberd. He was somewhere in front of me, now, instead of somewhere behind. Instead of looking up, I found myself sitting on the ground beside Lung, staring somewhere past his body. The night air might have felt nice. The explosions had quieted, whatever they had been.

Armsmaster drew in a breath as the wand slid out from Lung’s chin and dropped to my side.

My breathing was slow.

A hand touched my shoulder. I threw it off. It tried again.

“The Dallons—” he began, then lowered his voice, and began again. “The Dallons were worried about you.”

Yes, I was sure Amy Dallon was quite worried. The snide thought was almost worth speaking, but instead, I felt myself crying. I didn’t know why. You’d probably know why. My arm squeezed more tightly around the teddy bear. I felt its bottom scrape against the ground. It sat nearly as tall as me.

I’d expected to feel relief. It would be a valid reason to cry. But instead…

“They said you thought Lung would kill you,” he said, his voice as if he was explaining a logic problem. “He won’t be able to do that, now.”

Why couldn’t he shut up?

* * *

At some point, I realized, Armsmaster must have grown tired of my unwillingness to move, as he was now carrying my body towards his motorcycle.

Or, maybe I had realized it earlier. Maybe even before he’d picked me up. Maybe I just hadn’t wanted to move, and had let him carry me. I didn’t know.

He placed me upon the seat, and made to grab something, perhaps to help buckle me in. But I didn’t want to go with him. And, for a moment, I felt encouraged, as there was something I knew I didn’t want.

I slid off the bike.

“Hermione,” said Armsmaster, but I wasn’t listening. My footsteps became more hurried as I dashed away.

I wanted to laugh. He couldn’t follow me, even if he wanted to. After all, he had to tend to Lung.

And laugh I did.

* * *

The smell of smoke had been growing stronger, although I’d thought I’d left the fires behind. My eyes searched for orange light; my skin checked for traces of heat. I found neither.

I ducked into an alleyway, not wanting to stay on the main streets for more than the block I already had. Out of that alleyway, and into another, and then another. Somewhere, I ended up on a big street again. Seventh Street, maybe. Some of the buildings looked familiar. Just a bit too tall for the Docks proper; just a bit too short for downtown.

The smell of smoke grew only stronger. I should have left it. But I didn’t want to. There was a spark of curiosity, and so enthused was I by the spark, and by the desire to chase it, that I didn’t have the heart to think better. After all, there were still no traces of fire, nor were there sounds of violence, and if I saw or heard any, I reasoned, I could always turn around. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anywhere to be, so anything was as good as the next, really.

I crossed an alley and the smell lessened, so I doubled back and entered.

The alley went right behind a building, and zig-zagged behind another, leaving me, I thought, less than three blocks away from where I’d started. I almost left, not really wanting to run into anyone, again, and I would have, until my gaze was caught.

I saw the wreckage before the blood: the charred and cracked brick and the torn apart dumpsters strewn across the alley made it resemble a scene from a war movie. Even the ground was unsteady, filled with rubble and pitted with holes.

And then there was the blood. A pool of it, expanding away from two bodies across one another.

First, I saw the man. He wore a black bodysuit and a demonic mask. Through each eye was a crossbow bolt. The blood trailed down from his eye sockets, down along his body, which was pinned to the wall by another several bolts, from which came more blood, which was slowly pooling upon the ground.

He was almost certainly dead. I felt myself swallow, thickly.

And then I saw her, across from him: a figure barely propped against the wall. Half her mask laid upon the ground next to her, a shattered mess. The other half hung from a strap that went somewhere behind her ear.

I knew her face.

It had haunted me daily for the past year and a half, second only to my former friend’s, and I hated it. I wanted to hate it. I _should_ have hated it. And I thought, for a moment, that I didn’t hate it because I still wasn’t feeling, and then, I realized that I was wrong: I definitely _was_ feeling.

Only, instead of hate, I was feeling panic. For however I’d been the past few days, the past few weeks, the past few months, however long it had been, I still couldn’t let someone die, not even her, not when I could stop it. And I could stop it. I had to. She was still breathing.

I rushed towards her. A chunk was missing from her side. It didn’t look good, and I didn’t know what to do. I wish you were here, you always— I had to do something! I nearly waved my wand before remembering, as much as I might pretend otherwise, as much as I might _need_ otherwise, that magic—

The wand clattered to the ground as I tried to find something with which to stop the bleeding. I spun and stumbled towards the man, who I assumed was Oni Lee.

I tried to rip his clothing, but it wouldn’t tear. Stupid! Stupid, Taylor! I grabbed one of his knives, and tore into his clothing, accidentally tearing into him a bit, as well. The knife caught in his skin.

It took too many tries, and the strip I got was barely a strip. I didn’t even know what to do with it, but I tried to get it onto Sophia, before realizing I needed something under it, too.

I tore off more of Oni Lee’s outfit, and more, and rolled it into something and pushed it at Sophia’s side.

She moaned, and I almost let go. Was she awake? My eyes darted to the crossbow by her side, but her hands didn’t move towards it.

There was an odd bulge by her side. A phone? I tried to get it from whatever was holding it, but I couldn’t work the pocket. It had a button, and the button kept slipping through the fingers of my hand, and my other hand was still holding the cloth to her side, and I didn’t even know if I was doing it right, and the bear was across the alley where I’d dropped it, and what did the bear matter, and—

I took a deep breath in. Swapped hands. Picked up the knife. Cut out the phone.

How did one… There was a button. It turned on. Its light was too bright—

It wanted a passcode. Passcode? But— But there was a button labeled “Emergency.”

I tapped it, and it immediately dialed.

“Help,” I said, before the person on the other end could answer. “She’s dying, she’s— she’s bleeding, and I think Oni Lee got her, and do I hold this up to the blood, I don’t—”

The voice on the other end was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t even hold the phone right to hear it if I wanted. It dropped from my hand as I kept rambling.

“I think, I don’t know where we are, somewhere near Lung was, I just talked with Armsmaster, he should still be nearby, just send someone, please, just—”

The voice was still trying to say something, in a voice that was far too calm. She was dying, and I couldn’t do anything, I was useless, I— and—

Sophia groaned, again, and coughed a wet, unpleasant cough. Did I need to check her pulse? To—

I felt something strange: an odd feeling I couldn’t identify, either fear or delight. Then, I heard something slam into the ground behind me.

My gaze couldn’t leave Sophia’s side, even as I heard feet rushing towards me. I was certain I would soon be joining Sophia. Someone from ABB was probably here to finish the job, and, I was sure, they’d do it gloriously, perfectly, so perfectly…

A hand reached over me and touched Sophia’s neck. Another pair of hands pulled me away. I tried to fight, but they were so strong, so comfortably strong, and I could see the muscles on her arms and they were beau—

Amy. It was _her_ hand on Sophia’s neck. Her face was focused, but with a vaguely unpleasant look about it, as if she’d been, somehow, interrupted.

Someone was speaking into my ear. I wasn’t sure what they were saying. My heart was beating too fast, and all I could hear in my ears was the thump thump of its rhythm.

Slowly, the voice came into focus. “Breathe,” it said. “In… out…”

The voice turned away from my ear. “Amy, how do you tell if it’s hyperventilation or anxiety? And how do you breathe if it’s hyperventilation? And what _is_ hyp— oh, forget it.”

Her voice turned back to me. “In… two… three… four… hold… two… three… four… five… six… out… two… three…”

I felt my breath slowly coming back.

“I… I tried to save her,” I whispered.

“You did save her,” whispered the voice in my ear. Vicky, I thought. It sounded familiar. “Amy will have her fixed in just a minute. Two tops. We came because the PRT alert, and they called us because of you.”

“I… I don’t understand,” I whispered. “I tried to save her.”

Vicky may not have known what to say, as she didn’t say anything. She only shushed me.

“I… I _hated_ her, and I…”

Her shushing only grew more insistent. She pulled me more tightly into her arms.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and I flinched, only for her arms to still me, again, though they fit around me oddly, as if she was trying to both surround me and not suffocate me, and was unsure where to leave the balance.

She took a breath, just slightly too sharp, and spoke again. “You helped her anyway. _That_ matters,” she emphasized.

My breathing still felt unstable, my inhalations coming in short gasps, my exhalations shaking and uneven. “In… two… three…” she continued.

I saw a movement ahead of me. It shuffled around. My eyes focused, slowly, and I saw Amy.

She picked up the bear. I’d thought it’d been across the alley, but somehow, it had been soaked in blood. Amy frowned at it slightly, before touching the blood, and it all seemed to tear itself away. Her hand brushed over it, and all manner of gunk seemed to collect within her palm, before it followed the blood to the ground.

Briefly, she hugged the bear to her. Then, spotting my gaze, she pulled it away.

She looked anywhere other than at me. Her eyes caught my wand.

For a moment, I thought she was going to snap it. Maybe she thought so, too.

Instead, she picked it up, the blood flowing off it much as it had the bear. It was still left stained red. Amy grimaced at it.

She shuffled over, her eyes somewhere above mine. Looking at her sister, I supposed.

Finally, she shoved the bear and wand in my face.

“Couldn’t get all the blood out of the stick,” she said, her voice gruff. “Only the alive parts. It’s safe enough, though.”

I wondered if ‘alive parts’ included viruses. But if it didn’t, I didn’t see how she’d call it safe enough.

It didn’t matter, anyway, as my hands had already taken both bear and wand. The bear hung oddly from my hand, oversized as it was, and I didn’t want it to touch the ground and get blood on it again. But my arm strained, and I couldn’t keep it held aloft.

Vicky’s arm grasped mine and she guided it down, whispering “it’s fine, it’s fine.” At some point, she must have pulled me away from the blood.

“Is… is Sophia—”

“ _Shadow Stalker_ is fine,” said Vicky, firmly. “Isn’t she?” she asked Amy, rather less firm.

“She won’t wake for a couple hours. We’ll need to wait for the paramedics…”

She trailed off as sirens approached. An ambulance pulled up to the alley, and paramedics stepped out. One went to Sophia. One headed towards Vicky and I.

I was led out the alley. I was asked questions. I may have answered. The paramedic may have wanted me to go with them, but I didn’t want to, and Vicky said something and he backed off. He did insist I wipe myself down with some antibacterial wipes, and Vicky did it for me.

And soon, it was over. Others might have come. Maybe some PRT agents. Someone named Melinda. She had pretty eyes. I wished she’d stayed.

Vicky began asking me inane questions. How many red things could I see? How many orange things? Did the ground press up into me? Or did I press down into it? I didn’t understand. She kept asking the questions. I started answering.

Three ambulance tail lights. A red sign. Red bricks. Red bloodstains. Two blinking orange lights. A traffic cone. A logo. I could feel the ground pressing into my feet.

We came out onto the street. It was surprisingly busy, for this time of night. Dozens of cars waited patiently at the nearby light. I was glad Vicky didn’t ask me to count red things, again: there’d be far too many.

“Have dinner with us,” said Vicky, suddenly.

“What?” exclaimed Amy. Her mouth hung open, her face stuck somewhere between shock and, I thought, disgust.

“Well, I doubt she’d be willing to come with us and get cleaned up properly,” said Vicky, her voice one of someone trying to be reasonable. I didn’t think she’d really answered the question Amy had not quite been asking. “But I figured she could eat something.”

Could I? I hadn’t really had much of anything for lunch. Not really anything for breakfast, either.

“Please?” asked Vicky, the word leaving her in a short excited burst, a radiant smile spread across her face. She looked at me, and then looked pointedly at Amy, nodded towards me, and finally shifted her gaze back to me.

Amy’s eyes rolled slightly, in that way one does if they don’t feel up to putting in the effort. “Please,” said Amy, her voice flat.

Vicky’s smile broadened more. I felt like I wanted to say yes, and so enthused was I by that feeling… I couldn’t say no. And besides, I thought, you’d… I considered. What _would_ you want?

“What would be open this late?” I asked.

Vicky blinked. Her smile dipped for only a second as her face flashed confusion, before it returned. “Oh! The sunset just happened, like, an hour ago. There’s a Thai place downtown. It’s just, like, five or six blocks away. Maybe seven. I think it would make a nice walk, don’t you? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, you know. I can talk!”

I blinked.

I went to dinner.


	4. Interlude: Halberds and Heroes

His tête-à-tête with Lung could have been going better, Colin reflected, as a hand large as his head knocked him off his feet and sent him careening down the street. Midair, he noted Lung had set yet another car aflame. No occupants, thankfully. Still, the car’s owner would no doubt be displeased, and their displeasure would pale in comparison to Director Piggot’s.

Lung’s fire was already white-hot, and flickering in that pulsating way only his fire did, as if to an inaudible heartbeat, _thump thump, thump thump_.

The flame’s heat was a more accurate scale of Lung’s strength than his size: he could grow without strengthening, or strengthen without growing, not that the distinction was worth explaining to anyone. Nobody tended to listen to Colin when he discussed technicalities. Besides, Colin wasn’t sure whether Lung could control either consciously. He’d ask, but he doubted Lung would answer.

Colin’s face shifted into a wry smile at the thought as he felt his back hit the ground. He made a note to improve his armor’s padding. It seemed his most recent tweaks, aimed at making space for a propulsion system, had reduced its efficacy.

He heard a victorious roar from down the street. Ah, Lung. But, loathe as he was to admit it, Colin understood pride, and while he might not have roared when he got _his_ hits in, a roar _had_ sounded in his mind.

Colin maneuvered his arms beneath himself, jumping to his feet just in time to twist away from a monstrous punch. A casual lean to the side and his halberd—_the_ Halberd—leapt to his hand. Magnets were fantastic, really.

Another voice came from down the street, but Colin didn’t have the attention to spare. Instead, he twirled the Halberd: once, twice, a third time. Lung swung his arm at it, but Colin was too fast. Besides, he’d seen it coming— or, more accurately, his still-a-work-in-progress combat prediction software had seen it coming. The PRT Director wouldn’t like him testing the software in the field, but Colin was certain he could account for any inaccuracies, and besides: she didn’t need to know.

Lung roared again, but this one was not a roar of pride and victory, but instead, one of pain. Colin took a step back, glancing, against his better judgement, toward the figure standing down the street, in the shadows at the mouth of an alley. _It better not be Shadow Stalker,_ he thought.

* * *

“She reminds me of him,” Colin said. He wouldn’t say it to anyone. Dragon wasn’t _anyone._ She was Dragon. She was, perhaps, the best tinker in the world. “Hermione, I mean.”

She was good enough she _ought_ to improve her face’s resolution. He could see the pixels. Her software rendered far fewer than his monitor was capable of displaying. He had it running through his own software to upsample it, but it couldn’t invent data where there was none; it could only do its best to make the data’s deficiencies less noticeable. Colin still noticed them.

“I wasn’t aware you knew Hero so well,” said Dragon. One of her digital eyebrows rose. He could make that out, even with the paltry… well.

Colin felt himself frown. The lack of pixels was irritating. She should improve it. “I followed him closely.”

Dragon smiled slightly. “And did he know of your… ‘following?’”

A grimace crossed his lips briefly. She _really_ needed to— “It is not relevant.”

Her smile irritated him: he felt his eyes try to twitch. A grid of three hundred by one hundred pixels was truly insufficient when blown up to five inches wide.

“I suppose it isn’t, Colin,” she said, a small shake in her voice, almost like laughter. He felt his nose crinkle slightly, and his cheeks warm. Was her audio software faulty, too? It often seemed so perfect.

Colin felt himself sigh. He looked down at the notebook in his hands. Using it probably wasted time—he’d make it up elsewhere, he told himself—but he was still attached to writing his reports longhand. He’d run it through his hand-tailored optical character recognition software later before sending it to the Director. She’d laughed in his face, or done close enough, the first and only time he’d turned in a handwritten report.

He frowned at the page, still frustratingly blank.

“What about her?” Dragon’s voice asked. He’d forgotten she was still on the line. Why had he called her? Or had she called him? He forgot. He made a note to check his memory wasn’t faulty. “What reminded you of Hero, Colin?”

Colin looked back up at her. His face tightened slightly. He slowly chewed over his words.

“Hero got himself killed,” he said, finally.

* * *

“What was _your_ ward even _doing_ on the streets?” demanded Director Piggot, her voice tight, her hands gripping the edge of her desk.

“She does have free time allocated between school and patrol,” said Colin.

“_Free time_ means _no costume._ For that matter, it means _no fighting,_ Armsmaster,” she said, her voice somehow tightening even further. “I ask again: _what was your ward doing?_”

Colin did not look away from her gaze, although he knew it usually seemed to make her angrier.

“We are investigating,” he said.

“Investigating.” The Director growled the word out in a manner that did not sound comfortable. “And the lethal rounds she was carrying?”

“They are called _bolts_ , Director,” said Colin, stiffly. “It is fortunate she had them. She might otherwise be dead.”

“The question, Armsmaster.”

“We are investigating,” he said.

“And _why_ did the Dallons report that this _Hermione,_ and I quote, ‘hated’ Shadow Stalker? And believe me, Armsmaster, they couldn’t stop singing her praises for saving _your ward_ anyway. _What_ , exactly, is their history, _Armsmaster?_”

“We are investigating,” he said.

She took in a deep breath, although she had to have been expecting the answer, anyway.

“Fine,” she said, at last. “And what of Hermione herself?”

* * *

“You gonna…” Colin began, but stopped as he looked up. The figure was no longer in the shadows at the mouth of the alley down the street. She’d approached, and was now less than a dozen feet away.

In her left hand she held a stick, and Colin didn’t want to tear his eyes from it: earlier, she’d summoned bugs seemingly out of nowhere. It was possible _some_ had come from her surroundings, but the sheer amount had been stunning.

But against his better judgement, he moved his eyes to her other arm, in which was held a _teddy bear_ of all things, almost as big as her torso.

“You’re not Parian,” he said, slowly. Parian had been known to animate stuffed animals and the like, if he remembered correctly, but she was not nearly as tall. A thought occurred. A notice he’d not fully paid attention to as he was getting his gear prepared to stop Lung’s latest rampage. “You’re…”

He blinked as he realized just how little attention he’d paid the notice. It had said something about Lung, but she’d helped fight him, so he doubted she was with the ABB.

She opened her mouth. After a moment, she closed it again, and looked away.

“New face,” Colin grunted. She did not look at Colin. Instead, she turned her eyes to Lung. She stood there for a long moment, before resuming her walk towards him.

“What’s your name?” asked Colin.

“Hermione, I guess,” she said.

Colin nodded. A twitch of his thumb engaged his radio. “Hermione’s here.”

He heard a beep in his ear, and then a voice. Some PRT agent. Wasn’t important who.

“How much of the briefing did you catch?” asked the voice.

Colin didn’t bother answering. Hermione was approaching Lung’s body. She’d be able to hear anything he said.

“Dallons reported she jumped out their window,” continued the voice as Hermione passed him, and Colin tensed slightly, but the voice continued. “Worried for her safety. She’d said Lung would kill her. Recommend nonthreatening approach. Leave radio on, we will advise.”

That explained why she wanted to see Lung up close.

“Do you need a hospital?” Colin asked. “Hermione,” he added, thinking _he’d_ find someone less threatening if they addressed him by name. He ignored the sound of approval from the radio.

He followed her to the cage in which he’d imprisoned Lung, and watched as she circled it.

“He won’t rise,” said Colin, trying to keep his voice quiet. “You’re safe, Hermione.”

She knelt down next to Lung, and poked her stick up his chin. Colin felt his cheeks flush slightly.

“He was too big,” he said, quickly, grimacing at the simplification: he hadn’t been too _big_ so much as he’d been too _strong_. “The tranquilizers had to be administered into his brain. The chin was the most effective avenue to reach it. Look.”

He began fiddling with his halberd, but ceased as he realized she, like everyone bar Dragon, didn’t seem interested in the technicalities.

She sat down by Lung. After a moment, she withdrew the stick.

Colin’s eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath.

* * *

Dragon’s face did not change for a long moment. She did that, sometimes, when she was surprised. A defense mechanism, he noted to himself, so that people wouldn’t see reactions they shouldn’t.

“You’ve always tried to emulate Hero, yourself,” she noted, at last.

“I have not tried to emulate that part,” said Colin. He winced slightly: she would have noticed he had said ‘have not’ instead of ‘haven’t.’ It was a verbal tell she had pointed out before, and which he had tried and failed to eliminate.

“Hm,” she said.

* * *

“What about her?” asked Colin. The Director did not seem to appreciate the question.

“Why is she not _here_?” she asked. “Your report says you _carried_ her to your motorcycle. _Carried._”

Colin nodded.

“And _why_ , when faced with an uncooperative Parahuman, did you not wait for the PRT?” she said, after she had waited long enough without elaboration.

“Did you want me to foam her?” he asked.

“If necessary,” she said.

Colin did not say anything, although he felt his mouth tense slightly.

“You don’t approve,” the Director said.

Again, Colin did not comment.

“Perhaps, then, you can tell me why _my_ higher ups think _she’s_ so important,” she said. Syntactically, it was a statement, and yet it was clearly a question.

She probably expected Colin to reply that he would investigate, and he was sorely tempted to do so.

Instead, he took a deep breath.

“She is a Trump.”

* * *

Colin almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. As Hermione pulled the wand from Lung’s chin, he saw it: a tiny flame.

It should have burnt the wand, but instead, the wand was left pristine but for the blood that coated it, its tip not even darkening at the heat… a heat that was slowly burning Lung’s own skin.

And the flame pulsed.

_Thump thump, thump thump._


	5. The Useless Flame

I felt bad about pretending. Some people have _actual_ problems. Me… I’m fine enough. I’ve got a home. I’ve got a dad. I could do as well as I wanted in school, and I usually got in my three meals a day. I ate when I was hungry, anyway.

Not everyone was so lucky.

But I’d decided I _couldn’t deal._ Decided to lead them all on. Told them I thought I was a _witch_.

You’d have been so disappointed in me, I know. Had I even thought about how they’d worry? They must have thought me mad. I’d have thought me mad, if I hadn’t known better. I’d _known_ I was just a girl who could control bugs. Nothing special.

They must think I’d get myself in trouble the instant I was unwatched. Even now, I could feel Vicky hovering somewhere nearby, waiting for me to—

She didn’t realize: I’d be fine, now. Lung was caught. I wasn’t going to die. I’d be fine. I could be fine, if I just wasn’t so stubborn not to try.

It’s not like it would be hard. You’d always told me everything was a matter of perspective. I just had to look at things differently. I was lucky, after all. I had a home, I had a dad, I could do well in school, Lung was gone. I could deal.

You’d want me to be happy. I could do that! I just had to try. I could do it if I just—

The door had stared at me long enough. I patted my pockets, then realized the key was in my backpack.

Didn’t the Dallons have it? Then what were the straps across my shoulders?

Oh, right. I’d wondered what Vicky had slipped up my arms. Or had it been Amy? No, it wouldn’t have been Amy, would it have? She didn’t like me much. Maybe she’d realized I’d been faking it. Their father had depression, after all. Amy had said so.

And maybe I _had_ been a bit depressed, but it wasn’t like _that_. She’d told me it was a brain chemistry thing. Her voice had been quiet. Slightly resentful, even. It was an _actual_ problem, after all.

I had to put down the bear to slide the backpack off. I rolled my eyes at it. I was a grown girl. I didn’t need a stuffed bear, of all things. But Amy hadn’t wanted it back. Probably because of the bloodstains.

My hands searched the front pocket and they found my keys easily, just there, right where they belonged. You’d always told me that if I had a place for everything, I’d never lose anything.

I pushed the key into the lock. Slammed an easygoing smile onto my face. Happy!

“Thank God,” came Dad’s voice.

I’d be happy. If not for me, if not for you, then for him.

* * *

I’d thought maybe I could stay home from school, but Dad had said I should go. Which was fine, really. School wasn’t _that_ bad. Some of my classmates weren’t very nice, and Emma was, well, Emma. But since when was that illegal? I could ignore it. Really, weren’t _they_ the ones with the problems?

Eyes were on me as I entered the school. Probably Vicky, again. Didn’t she have school, too? Then again, it was probably my imagination.

Mrs. Knott glanced up at me as I entered homeroom. She gave me a sad sort of smile, and her gaze never quite returned to her computer, even though I smiled back, my smile neither too wide nor too narrow. Well, it wasn’t wider than usual, at any rate.

She didn’t say anything about how I had run out of Mr. Gladly’s class the day before. Perhaps the office would call me in, or perhaps nothing would be said at all. It was fine. I’d deal with whichever it was, when the time came. Until then, no use worrying, right?

I should be happy: computer class was my favorite, was it not? A smile shoved its way onto my face as I turned on the machine. They were always off, first thing in the morning. The aging devices would take awhile to start up. I busied myself watching the little startup animations.

The schoolwork wasn’t difficult. Twenty minutes, and I’d done the work well enough. It was just some simple spreadsheet calculations. Not even programming, really: my summer studies had taught me that much. Maybe I could have done more, but I didn’t feel like bothering, and I didn’t think you would have minded. Besides, what student did more than was required?

Instead, I opened Parahumans Online. I always had been a bit of a cape geek.

I checked the main boards, first. Not a whole lot new. All the posts had titles worthy of tabloids. Most were questions, and many were mispelled. ’Scionn distracted?’ ‘Alexandria’s in love affair with PRTs head?’ ‘Dogs.’

What was the ‘Dogs’ one about? I clicked. I don’t know what I expected, but it hadn’t been Eidolon playing with a baby Samoyed. I supposed one could find it cute.

I opened the message board for Brockton Bay, and my eyes widened slightly. It stood out. Its title was only one word, without any of the usual indicators that denoted what sort of thread it was.

’Hermione.’

The mouse moved.

Clicked.

It was a bad idea, I knew: they’d think me mad, and they had good reason. But it didn’t matter.

My heart was beating strangely. I should be happy: I’d barely been out a day and a half, and there was a thread about me. Perhaps that’s what the feeling was.

The poster was asking if anyone knew more. There was something about Shadow Stalker and Lung in there, too. The Lung bit looked like speculation more than anything else.

There were easily a dozen friendly comments. I felt almost cheerful, reading them. More still wondered about my powers. I thought about telling them. I could create a new account. But what _would_ I tell them? That I controlled bugs? Nothing special. Nothing worth the hype _some_ in the thread were showing, really.

Two comments weren’t so positive.

They were right, really.

_Hermione._

It had been a silly name. I should have thought it through.

So silly.

But it wasn’t worth dwelling on. You always told me dwelling made it worse.

I was fine. I could be fine.

Should I respond?

I shouldn’t bother.

One of them was the last post in the thread. How many would read it? I could explain…

But really, they were right. I _had_ been silly.

I could tell them they were right. Or I could just respond to another, nicer post.

No. I didn’t need to. Everything was already fine.

You’d tell me to ignore them. I could do that.

I just had to try. I could be happy, if I just tried a bit more.

* * *

The tissues in my nose left me looking like an idiot.

I hadn’t been paying attention. Hadn’t realized Sophia had even been standing there. She hadn’t looked any the worse for wear, for all that she’d nearly died the previous night.

She’d stuck out her leg, and I had tripped. Stupid of me. I should have seen it. Should have noticed her before I even took a step down that hallway.

I could have caught myself. My arms had plenty of time to move, but they hadn’t. My thoughts had moved too slowly. I’d toppled headfirst into the wall.

Stupid! I lightly punched my head at the thought. Perhaps I hit a bit less than lightly. Not paying attention, again.

But it could be worse. I’m fine. Nose isn’t even broken. Just a bit bloody.

I tried pulling out the tissue, but the blood was still flowing.

It was fine. I was fine.

I smiled at the nurse.

* * *

There must have been something on my face. I’d thought people had been watching me when I’d gotten to school, and now, as I was leaving, I was _sure_ people were staring. Every time I looked down the street I’d see them look away.

Then again, some were students. And they may have been whispering to each other. They probably thought I was crazy. Or maybe I was just being overly sensitive. You’d said I was a sensitive child, and I doubt that would have changed much in the past couple of years.

I’d forgotten my morning run. Why not go now? I wasn’t dressed for it, sure, and I had my backpack on. But it just added to the challenge, and was a rather just punishment for my lapse.

I started off at a decent pace. But it didn’t end up being the longest run. I’d only run a few blocks when I’d realized I was nearing the library. I should have kept up my run. I didn’t want to.

I sighed as I walked through the doors. The library was annoyingly busy, even in the middle of the afternoon, filled with too many people who wanted quiet for any of them to be able to find it.

Still, the library always made me feel just a little more peaceful. The tall ceilings gave it an open, airy feel, while the large Ionic columns supporting them, with their elegant and stately scrolls, lent an air of steadfastness. It was a fixture. It was a refuge.

There were several computers free. Perhaps it wasn’t so busy, after all. At lunch, there’d not have been any.

I could have studied. Could have done some homework. I _did_ manage to keep myself from reading fanfiction, but only just.

Instead, I opened up PHO again. Glanced at the thread.

Nothing new.

I read some fanfic.

Every so often, I’d refresh. Nothing new.

A one-shot.

Nothing new.

A chapter or two.

Nothing.

Another one-shot.

Noth—

Wait.

> **Shadow Stalker**
> 
> Owe her one. Anyone knows anything, ping me.

I blinked.

I—

No. Sophia didn’t matter. I’d only done what— You know, it’s fine? It had happened so quickly, anyway. I could barely remember it.

It was funny, really. Sophia owing me. I should be happy at the thought.

I closed the browser. I was only wasting time, here, anyway. I needed to get home before Dad missed me.

I yanked up the corners of my lips.

* * *

There wasn’t any reason to be unhappy, and it wasn’t like I felt sad or anything. But something felt wrong. But there wasn’t any reason.

There wasn’t any _actual_ problem. I was _fine_. _Fine._

Fine.

I should have turned left from the library and headed home, but instead, I went right. It shouldn’t be dangerous. Just downtown. Just somewhere else, for a bit. Just a walk. Just to clear my head.

But I didn’t go downtown either.

I don’t want to do this, again. I should be fine. Lung’s gone. I…

A flash of anger flows through me. I _should_ be fine. I should be. There’s no reason, no reason at all for me to—

I need to hit something. Now.

* * *

“Crucio,” I hissed, and my swarms attacked.

Perhaps I ought to have been more subtle, but I hadn’t been feeling it. As it was, I’d barely managed to grab the mask the Dallons had given me, and I’d nearly skipped the wand entirely.

Those men had been preparing to torch some poor woman’s home, and they’d been saying the most awful things. I was angry. Who _wouldn’t_ be angry? You’d be angry, too, wouldn’t you?

It hadn’t been difficult to notice them, walking down a street that rarely saw a car. My bugs had tasted the stench of the gasoline, emanating from the canisters the men had been carrying. It had been less difficult still to identify them, after creeping up close. They’d not bothered keep their voices down. They were _jubilant._

Empire Fucking Eighty Eight.

My swarms attacked from above. From their sides. From in front of them. And from my wand. Some strange trick of the light made _that_ swarm look the most impressive of all: a nearly opaque wall hurtling at them. I could almost _feel_ the bugs appear, as if from nowhere, in that spot in which I felt _all_ my bugs.

I didn’t use wasps and bees. I was not feeling kind enough to limit their stings. Instead, I let my swarm crawl over them, covering every inch of their bodies. And, as one, my bugs bit down.

And as one, the men screamed, and as one, they collapsed onto the ground.

There was no need for venom. Why bother, when I could tear out tiny chunks of skin? My bugs bit, and bit, and bit again. I tried to let the vicious smile spread across my face. Happy. See? I just want to be… you’d want me to be…

My bugs let up.

I just needed a way to keep the men in place for a bit, so I could call the PRT, or the police, or something.

“I’ll know if you move,” I said, raising my voice so they could hear above their own yells. “And they will bite again.”

In spite of its raised volume, I could barely hear my own voice. My skin felt like it was about to burst off me. I could see, but it felt like I couldn’t.

It was all I could do to walk forward and pick up one of the canisters of gas.

I flipped the cap off the nozzle, and began to pour. I kept it several feet from them, and made it as wide a line as I could. Around I went, and again, and again…

And now…

They had to have matches. They’d been planning on starting a fire, themselves.

My bugs would find the matches easily.

I imagined the fire. The flames that would turn to smoke with a quiet crackling. I could almost feel the peace of them. I could almost feel the warmth in my hands. I twitched the wand.

“Incendio.”

No.

It must have been a trick of the light. I was fine. I was.

The bugs must have found the matches. They must have _already_ found them. I must have made them find the matches before I’d even said the word.

But I hadn’t felt the bugs so much as twitch.

And I _had_ seen the flame. I had _seen_ — I should be fine, I shouldn’t be seeing things, I wasn’t a crazy person, I was fine, I—

It had leapt from my wand so easily, and set the gasoline alight, a beautiful orange light, turning dirty with soot as its target ignited.

No. It had to be something—

“Incendio,” I cast again, and again a tiny flame leapt from my wand tip.

It couldn’t.

But then, the fire was definitely there. And it had happened too quickly to have been from a match.

“Incendio,” I cast once more, and once more, a tiny flame flew forth. One of the men screamed anew as it hit him, but just as quickly as it had lit, it exhausted itself.

“Incendio,” I cast, one more time.

Such a tiny flame. Useless. But what else would it be?

“Incendio.”

* * *

I made it to a payphone before the fire went out. I don’t remember if I called the police or the PRT. I don’t remember what they said. I don’t remember what I said.

When I heard the sirens approach, I left. The men had collected themselves enough to sit up. They made no move to approach the flames. Then again, I did still have bugs on them.

I should be happy. I had been a hero. I had saved someone’s home. Their kitchen. Their clothes. Their bed. Would you be proud?

They’d screamed. I didn’t mean, I mean, I’d thought… But the anger had come so easily. I’d wanted it to come so easily, I’d wanted…

They were fine.

I was a hero. I should be happy. Happy.

* * *

Dad still wasn’t home when I arrived. It was early, still. The sun wouldn’t set for another hour or two. But if he had been home, I don’t know if I would have noticed.

I must’ve climbed the stairs at some point.

Collapsed on my bed.

Stared at the ceiling.

I should…

I should…

I should.

* * *

I made it to school the next morning. You’d have wanted that, at least.

The echoing sounds of the students seemed so far away. Their faces felt as if at a distance, as if seen within a screen from feet away.

I moved one foot forward, and another, and another. I ducked out the hall as Emma and Madison passed, Emma looking more tense than usual. Just the two of them.

My feet carried me past the door to my first class. After a minute, I doubled back. I made it in time.

Lunchtime came. I saw Emma and Madison head for the cafeteria. I could have sworn I saw Emma jump as someone stormed by. Sophia would normally join them. She should’ve been in my last class. Perhaps she was out playing a hero. Maybe she was a better hero than I was.

I wasn’t hungry. I could eat a nice dinner, later. But I didn’t know if I would.

Instead of lunch, I sat in a classroom. An older one. Dusty. Unused for months, if not longer. Chalkboard instead of whiteboard.

Someone’s intricately-drawn tree covered most of the chalkboard’s surface, its branches spreading from the left of the board, where the trunk had been drawn, over to the right, strands of leaves hanging down here and there, flowers spaced every so often.

Under the tree ran a stream, half of which had been erased to make way for all manner of scribbles, some inane, some less so.

At least they hadn’t erased the tree.

When lunch was over, I stood. Meandered out the room, and down the hall.

I fell to the ground as someone shoved me. I hadn’t seen them. Or maybe I had, and again hadn’t been paying attention. Either way, I’d fallen.

The lights of the hall seemed a bit too bright as I stared up, trying to make out Sophia standing above me.

I heard her snort. But it didn’t sound like her.

I blinked.

Red hair. A cruel smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Useless,” muttered Emma, her eyes not meeting mine.

And she turned away.


	6. Interlude: The Girl Who Survived

Another day. School. A small mercy. The weekend meant boredom.

Another day. School, again. So full of people so unlike her.

Another day. School. Another day full of people who had never been so shaped by their experiences.

Another day. The weekend. She tried to focus. Tried to do her homework. Taylor was always better at that sort of thing. She still was, in spite of everything. Kept on going.

Perhaps a movie, then? She texted a friend. Another. Another. No answers, yet. A minute passed. Another. She tried to watch a funny video. It worked, for a minute or two.

A no: Madison was busy at a family thing. Another no: Emily was out of town. Another: Leanne said there wasn’t anything out worth watching. Another: Sophia didn’t do movies.

Another video. Another.

Another day. Long. Sunday. Quieter still than Saturday. She tried to read a book. A mystery. She didn’t get very far. Taylor was always better at that sort of thing. She still was, in spite of everything. Kept on going, even after her mother had been taken from her.

Perhaps a game? She had dozens, on her phone. She tried one. Another. Another.

Another day. Monday, at last. A quiet car ride in to school. Her Dad always drove her. Wouldn’t make his daughter ride the bus.

She put on her classic smile as she entered the school. Lifted her head just so. Armor. She would not be vulnerable.

A surprise. Someone had hit Sophia. Had hit hard enough to break her nose. It would have been something to talk about. But it was Sophia. Sophia didn’t talk about such things. Hadn’t said who’d done it, either. Perhaps Sophia’s refusal to talk should have been a clue. Taylor was always better at deciphering that sort of thing. Kept on going, until she solved it.

Taylor had tried to solve her. She hadn’t gotten very far. She was never better at the people sort of thing. She still wasn’t. She still didn’t understand who she was supposed to be.

Another day.

Another.

Another.

She tried telling Taylor. She tried again and again. Taylor was pathetic. Weak. Useless. Had _needed_ someone to make it through. Couldn’t even fight back properly. Couldn’t survive. Wouldn’t Aunt Annette be disappointed in her?

“Disappointed in me, Emma?” asked Taylor. Her voice sounded so firm. Didn’t she— “I thought she was practically your Aunt? I think we both know who she’d _really_ be disappointed in.”

The line had clearly been planned. Taylor was always better at planning things. She still was, in spite of everything. Kept on going, even after her only friend had—

“You’re really quite obsessed, aren’t you, Emma?” asked Taylor, her voice a picture of innocence. “I know you must be going through a lot of confusing feelings, but that’s no reason to take it out on me. It’s sad, really. You’ll never have a chance with me, you know. Not anymore.”

Blink. Classic smile slipped, just a little.

A million retorts flew through her head. But none would fit.

Truth, instead, delivered with a shrug as casual as she could make it: “Just trying to tell you what you should already know, Taylor. We were friends, once, after all.”

No use denying being gay. It would only make it worse.

And it _was_ true. Taylor should already have known who she was. Everyone else could see it, after all. It could be read upon Taylor’s face, just there, as her cool confidence melted away. Weak. Useless. Someone who needed others in order to survive.

Another day. Another. Another. They tended to blend together, like the scenery out the window of a train. She and Taylor had always loved the train.

Another day.

Sophia had stolen Aunt Annette’s flute from Taylor’s locker. The emotions were laid bare upon Taylor’s face. Not something to revel in. But still… reassuring. Taylor was a victim. Taylor was always better at that sort of thing.

But still, Taylor wouldn’t let herself admit it. She kept on going, no matter—

“Fuck with it.”

Another day. And another, and another, and nothing seemed to changed. It never changed.

Another day.

At some point, something _had_ changed. Taylor hadn’t fought back in months. But she was still there. She’d always been better at the stoicism thing.

Laughter still came easily. But there was something disappointing.

Taylor was still there, still the archetypical victim, and she always would be. And to laugh at that…

But it was how it was: there were attackers and victims. And there was only one anyone should ever want to be. Taylor was the wrong one.

She was still there.

There must be something that could crack her facade.

Another day. And another, and another. There was a plan, now. Taylor had always been better at plans, but that didn’t mean nobody else could make them.

A month to pull it off.

Winter break.

And then, that facade _had_ cracked. And for a week, Taylor had been gone.

But then she was back.

Still there.

Still the victim.

Still.

Another day.

Another.

A month, and another.

She screamed in class. Ran off after. She wasn’t so strong, not really. She’d not have made it any better, if their shoes had been switched.

Another day.

Sophia had been hurt, last night. Had almost died. A new hero had saved her.

Sophia still made it to school. She was strong.

But it wasn’t another day.

Sophia was the same. Still tripped Taylor.

But Sophia was different. Her smile had been different. Desperate. As if she had _needed_ Taylor to be there. Had _needed_ to trip her.

She’d strode off immediately after. It had been a challenge to keep up.

Lunch. Sophia was quieter than normal. Her hands looked as if they itched for her crossbow. Her eyes kept flickering to the door.

Why? What could possibly come through it?

She asked Sophia. And again. And again. And finally, voice hushed, Sophia answered: “She goes to Winslow.”

The new cape. But what did a new cape matter? She’d saved Sophia. Wasn’t that enough?

“And?”

“She’s strong,” said Sophia. She refused to elaborate.

How would Sophia know? Hadn’t she been unconscious? Then again, she was probably told as much by her bosses. Her _Wardens,_ as she called them. Or perhaps she’d only heard rumors, from the other Wards. Not that Sophia talked much with them, or anyone else really.

Why did Sophia care if the new cape went to Winslow? If she was strong? Didn’t Sophia already know a strong classmate?

Another afternoon. A stop for ice cream after school.

Sophia wouldn’t get off her phone.

Kept checking the cape site.

“Talk later?”

“Yeah,” said Sophia. “Usual time.”

Another evening. But it wasn’t another evening.

A text, before the usual time.

> Can’t call. Wardens want to talk. Probably new cape, again.

It was fine.

Emma was fine.

She didn’t need to talk. She didn’t need.

Emma was not a victim.

She wouldn’t be. That was for Taylor. _Emma_ was a survivor.

Morning.

No Sophia. It was fine. She’d been different, anyway. Emma wasn’t different. She was a survivor.

Taylor was still there. Emma caught a glimpse of her in the morning, but hadn’t been able to find her way over. Taylor was still there, even after all that had been taken from her. What had been taken from Emma?

Still there. Another glance before lunch.

Always there.

Nothing Emma had done had changed it. Nothing had returned what had been taken. _Nothing_ had been taken. It hadn’t been, because Emma was a survivor. Not like Taylor, Taylor who was still there,

Still there—

Still there.

There was nothing missing. There was just Taylor, and nothing Emma had done— Nothing Sophia—

Emma was a _survivor._ She was _strong._ She was the predator, not the prey.

She shoved Taylor to the ground.

Taylor blinked up at her.

But Taylor was still there.

Still there.

“Useless.”

She was a survivor.


	7. The Impossible Spell

“Would Emma Barnes please report to Principal Blackwell’s office? Emma Barnes to Principal’s office. Thank you,” came the voice over the intercom. Blackwell’s secretary, probably.

Emma had only just rounded the corner, heading off towards her next class. It was my next class, too. It looked like she wasn’t going to make it. The class might even be an almost pleasant experience without her. But I didn’t really want to make the class, either.

I could have gone to the computer lab. Read up on the latest gossip. I could have read more about how quiet the ABB had been, and how their new leader was out for blood. Or perhaps I could discover whether the E88 had found out that _I_ was the one who had attacked them yesterday. It would be good to know, I suppose.

Instead of the left Emma had taken, or the straight ahead to the currently-empty computer lab, I took a right, down the main corridor. The corridor was, in spite of the crowds of students rushing to their next class, somehow more muted than usual, lending everything an eerie sort of feel, as if it were all a part of a quiet dream.

There were large openings here and there, through which many students turned to head off to their classes. There was a door to a bathroom, and another, each with students streaming out. Another, out-of-order. Another, with a pair of girls exiting. One had a bloodied nose, the other a mutinous scowl. For a moment, I thought of Sophia, either because of the scowl, or because of the blood. My jaw clenched a bit, and my eyes scanned the hall again.

There were potted plants here and there, their leaves dinged and torn from the daily passing of thousands of reckless students. I counted the pots. They weren’t balanced. Six on one side of the hall. Seven on the other.

The floor was that unpleasant sort of carpet. I thought about counting the stains, but I’d have quickly lost track. The graying deep blue was trimmed by a foot of ugly salmon, equally faded.

Skylights above. One, two, three, four, five, six. Rain was pounding against them, and rivers of water rushed down the glass in its wake, its efforts futile to wash away the years of accumulated grime. The rain’s drumming noise permeated the hall, wrapping it within a cocoon of sound. I still wasn’t sure I hadn’t been seeing things yesterday, but at least today there was a reason for the room’s eerie, muted feel.

I almost thought better of skipping school, but it was just rain, and its cool presence was, in a way, a comfort, so very different as it was from fire. Nobody made to stop me as I walked out the front doors. The school’s only guard wasn’t there, but then, he often wasn’t, and the woman at the reception desk only glanced upwards momentarily.

Since I was already breaking the rules, I stole an umbrella from the umbrella stand. There was schoolwork in my backpack, after all. Or maybe I just didn’t want to get wet. Or maybe I didn’t think I’d face consequences, or maybe I didn’t care if I did. I resolved not to overthink it.

There wasn’t much traffic. Just a car here and there, their tires kicking up the water with that rough sort of splashing sound. A small red car… A blue SUV… A couple of grey vans from one of the bigger plumbing companies.

There was another, identical gray van parked across the street. I looked at it curiously. But then it pulled away and seemed to join the others. Hadn’t one of the bathrooms been out-of-order? Perhaps the plumbers had fixed it.

I walked in the direction of downtown, my clothes slowly dampening in spite of the umbrella. I hopped on a bus for a ways, deciding to pass on the library for the day. I wasn’t sure if I wanted a fight. I wasn’t sure I didn’t.

There were shops downtown. I could get a new costume. It looked like the name ‘Hermione’ would stick, and the creepy spider-silk suit didn’t really fit the theme. Perhaps there was a way to fix it, but I doubted I’d find one, buried as the suit was beneath my bed. I hadn’t managed to so much as glance at it for the past however long it had been. How long _had_ it been, since I’d almost died? I blinked as I remembered the fire… felt myself jerk slightly in the bench seat as I remembered that strange non-feeling I had felt afterwards… a feeling I tried to imagine I didn’t still feel traces of now…

The bus was headed downtown, I reminded myself. It was a good place to go. If I was going to fight, if I was going to be a cape, I’d need a costume, and I could buy pieces of one there. I knew I wasn’t going to spend months making another. I snorted at the thought. What would be the point?

The traffic worsened as the bus neared downtown. The stop and go made my skin crawl. My breath tightened slightly, and the bus seemed so small. The muscles in my arms and legs painfully contracted. I reached up and pulled the cord, but it was still a long couple of minutes until the bus pulled over into a stop.

Downtown proper was still a few blocks away. Belatedly, I opened my umbrella, my hair already wet. I’d forgotten about the rain. I passed a block of houses with neatly trimmed lawns. A small grocery store was next: it felt oddly suburban for the two blocks that separated it from the urban core.

There was a small commotion outside of one of the smaller schools. I supposed it was one of the nicer ones, close to downtown as it was. A half-dozen police cars were collected outside, lights flashing.

Another block, and then I was on a proper downtown street, shops on either side, most high-end enough I’d likely be turned away as soon as I entered, the combination of my age and appearance painting a clear picture of my budget.

Then again, if they were bored enough, perhaps the shops would show me their wares anyway. Downtown stores didn’t see many visitors during the weekdays, even during lunchtime.

Still, I decided not to bother the luxury shop workers. Instead, chose a small a thrift shop, its typical clientele evenly divided between those without the means to afford the items sold by the higher-end stores, and those who could easily afford such things but who saw some charm or another in the place regardless.

I halfheartedly looked for a better costume. What did a witch wear, anyway?

_Acromantula silk,_ I thought, a small smile coming to my face, as much as I tried to hide it. Why did I try to hide it? You’d always smiled back at me, when I’d smiled. I could remember the little laughs you’d sometimes give. How you’d press your finger onto the tip of my nose. Of how annoying I’d found it. I again felt myself smile. It was a shaky sort of smile, but I couldn’t stop it.

I let myself sit on a small bench as I felt my cheeks wet a little. Maybe, when I got home, I could look at some of our photo albums. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not the same as seeing you. Not the same as remembering you.

Could I remember you all day?

_Dueling robes,_ my thoughts continued. Apparently I could _not_ remember you all day. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t want me to.

I allowed myself the picture of twirling dark gray silken robes; I thought of them billowing dramatically in my wake like everyone had always imagined those of a certain Potions Professor.

The shopkeeper walked by. She glanced at me. I think she was about to say something, but she decided against it. Instead, she just gave me a little smile, and went back to reorganizing the racks of clothing, shuffling them here and there, periodically taking a step back and surveying, as if trying to match their order to some artistic vision.

Her black hair flicked behind her, brushing across her shoulders as she moved to another row of clothes, and I realized I’d been staring. I felt my cheeks flush a little.

Finally, I stood. I poked at the items. Perhaps I _would_ find a robe. I could use it as a pattern, if I did end up making the dueling robes. Either way, I could use it as a costume.

I shouldn’t have been surprised at the lack of robes in the thrift shop, I supposed. I slowly sifted through the racks, finding tops, pants, skirts, and dresses. One rack, then another. No robes.

For several minutes, I was about to give up. But for several minutes, I did not. There were still more racks to search, and there was something nice about being there in the empty shop, glancing at one piece of clothing, then another, then the shopkeeper, then another.

And then I found a robe. It fit me, mostly, even if it was a little short. My shoes wouldn’t quite be covered. But it would work. Its silky material felt nice under my hand, almost as nice as the silk my own spiders could weave.

It was only a few dollars. I left with it, saying goodbye to the girl behind the counter, remembering this time to open the umbrella as I left.

Then I noticed the big cloud of darkness down the street. I stared at it for a moment. I supposed it was the act of some villain or another.

I tried to remember what should be at that spot on the street. There was that new apartment building… a sushi place… and in between? Bay Central Bank, I thought. Robbing a bank. How cliché, really.

After a moment’s indecision, I stepped into an alley. It was still uncomfortably public, nearly wide enough for a car. But under the sound of the rain, perhaps it would do.

I pulled out my new robes and threw them on. Dug out the Dallons’ mask and pulled it over my head, the elastic strap snapping as I released it. Grabbed my wand.

As I stepped out of the alley, the water already soaking into the silken robes, three monstrous dogs charged by, a rider on each, and they nearly bowled me over. I shook myself, trying to cast off my surprise.

“Stupefy!” I shouted, a swarm of bugs rising to my call. They leapt at the dogs and their riders, but only a few landed. I had the bugs bite and sting, and could hear cursing in the distance.

I wanted to run after them. I wanted to make a difference. But I knew I couldn’t catch up. I had managed to be an inconvenience, but not much more. I should have fired a flame at them, too, I supposed, just to complete the set of futility.

Still. I was here. Still standing in the rain.

The darkness had faded. The doors of the bank were open, and its side windows shattered. Outside, a crowd of people was gathered. A few were laid out on the ground. Some others hovered over them.

I walked near.

A few of those on the ground couldn’t be much older than me. I recognized a suit or two. Clockblocker. Kid Win. Aegis was standing, a bystander helping him stay on his feet. I could hear him speak into a phone or a radio. I couldn’t quite make out all the words.

“—Panacea down, still inside. Glory Girl with her. Need an ambulance… don’t know what… there’s blood… gunshot maybe.”

I approached the bank. Nobody made to stop me.

Took a step inside.

It was surprisingly serene. Some shattered glass over by the northwest wall. A piece of paper here or there. Some scuff marks, and some grimy paw prints.

And in the middle, Glory Girl. Vicky. Under her, laying on the floor, was Amy.

Vicky’s hand pressed down upon a bleeding wound in Amy’s side. A small puddle of blood spread beneath them. It soaked Vicky’s knees, and stained her white boots along with the marble floor.

I didn’t move for a long few moments. I didn’t realize when Vicky looked up and noticed me.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s not deep. The shot was a ricochet. She said so. Bounced off my forcefield. She’ll be fine. She said so. She’ll be fine.”

Sometime during her speech she’d looked away from me, and back down to Amy. She took a few deep breaths.

“Could you…” she said, but she seemed at a loss for words. “Just come here. Please.”

I found myself approaching. Amy would be alright, wouldn’t she? Sophia had been hurt much worse, and she’d been fine… but, I realized, she’d had _Amy_ to heal her. My skin felt cold, whether from the water soaked into the robes or from the slight draft of air flowing through the bank, even as outside the rain was starting to let up.

“The wand,” said Vicky. “Armsmaster thought— It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, her hands pushing slightly harder into Amy’s stomach.

Amy shifted. “Vicky, I— I’m sorry… am I—”

“Shh…” said Vicky. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. You said it wasn’t deep, remember? You’ll be fine. You said. You’ll be fine.”

Vicky looked back up at me. “Tay— Hermione. The wand. Give it to me?”

I looked at the wand. Why would she want the wand? It wasn’t important, not to anyone but me. It was just a stick. Who’d want a stick?

“Please?” asked Vicky. “I just need to—”

“It’s… it was Mom’s,” I said, quietly. “I…”

“I know,” said Vicky. “I’ll give it back. I think you could help her. I just need… Oh, you wouldn’t believe me, anyway. Just… please, Taylor?”

I didn’t know how it could help save Amy. Amy didn’t need a stick. Amy needed _Amy._ But still… slowly, I held out the wand.

Vicky kept one hand on Amy’s stomach. With her other, she gently took the stick.

I breathed in sharply as she lowered it into the pool of blood and rolled it around. I tried to say something, but no words came out.

I could hear Vicky whispering to herself. As quiet as the space was, I could barely make it out. “Please work… please.”

Gingerly, she lifted it from the blood, and held it out.

“Take it,” she said. “There must be a healing spell, right?”

I shook my head. “I don’t—”

“Trust me, Taylor. Please. There is one, isn’t there?” she asked, her face more intense.

“I— I only know one, I don’t know if it’d work on something like, I mean, it wouldn’t work anyway, I know I said I’m a witch, but it’s always bugs, just bugs, useless bugs—”

“Trust me,” begged Vicky. “Please. Just use it.”

There were tears on her face. My eyes went down to Amy’s stomach. I wondered how shallow it actually was.

Slowly, jerkily, I nodded.

I let myself kneel by Amy’s side. I felt the dampness of the blood around my knees, staining my new robes and my jeans beneath them. Again, I felt the chill of the cold, damp outside air somehow reach its way into my bones.

Carefully, almost daintily, I took the wand from Vicky’s hand.

“Get the bullet out, first?” Vicky asked, more than said.

How? I—

“Trust me, Taylor,” she said, quietly. “I’m sorry for… just, please. I don’t know how to explain, so please, just…

“Use a spell. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t, and…” she took a deep breath. “That’s fine. If it doesn’t work, it’s fine, but please, try? She said she’ll be okay, but I…”

I’d not heard her voice like this before, but then, I’d only spent an evening with her and Amy.

I nodded, again, not trusting words.

The wound was hidden behind Vicky’s fingers. I supposed I didn’t need to see it to cast a spell. I didn’t know why Vicky thought it would work, but… as an odd sort of sound left Amy’s throat, I realized I couldn’t _not_ try. Not if Vicky thought it might help, as nonsensical as it might have seemed.

“Accio,” I said.

Nothing happened, of course.

Vicky looked down. Her shoulders began to drop. I felt something in my chest give way at the sight.

I tried to see it: the bullet somewhere beneath the skin, somewhere not too deep. Tried to imagine it sliding out the same way it had come in.

“Accio,” I tried again.

What would make it move? There weren’t bugs in her. There was just the bullet, and Amy herself. Why had Vicky soaked the wand?

A horrible, beautiful thought came to mind. It couldn’t be. But if it was…

I touched the wand to Amy’s stomach. She shivered, and she gave another little moan.

I tried to picture it: the bullet, there beneath the skin… and the flesh around it surrounding it… if it would just push, if it could only force the bullet out…

“Accio,” I said, one last time, flicking the wand.

And I felt it. A tingling in my hand, and a spark in Amy accompanied by a gaspy hiss from her mouth, and… I could almost feel the bullet itself, pushing itself out, up towards—

“Move your hand,” I said, hurriedly. “The bullet.”

Vicky’s eyes widened. A glimmer of hope spread across her face, and I could almost feel it in myself, too: a shiver of delight, of beauty.

She lifted her hand and the blood-soaked material she held within it. For a moment, blood bubbled out from the wound. And then, so did a bullet.

I didn’t have time for disbelief.

“Episkey!” I said hurriedly, ensuring the wand was still touching Amy’s skin. Never mind that, in the books, it hadn’t needed wand contact, at least as far as I could remember. Never mind that it had only been used for small things. Never mind that none of this made any sense at all, that magic wasn’t _real_ …

I tried to visualize all the flesh shifting itself back together, all the tears repairing themselves…

And then, slowly, bit by bit, the wound seemed to shrink, closing up until it was a small red dot of blood, and then… nothing but bloodstained skin.

Vicky’s face was awash in delight, and I felt the delight flow through me, too. A strange sort of laugh left me, and I was sure I had the silliest smile on my face.

“Is she…” Vicky started, but she didn’t seem to know what question she wanted to ask.

Before she could figure it out, Amy groaned a weak sort of laugh.

“A fuckin’ spell,” she said, her voice still weak and strange. She still sounded out of it. I looked down at her and swallowed thickly. Was there something else I could have done?

“A spell,” she said, again, giggling slightly. Figures the first time I’d see Amy smile, it would be while she was in shock, or whatever this was.

Vicky didn’t seem concerned. She seemed more relieved than anything else. Still…

“Rennervate?” I tried, my voice trailing upwards at the end, making it more a question than anything else. I tried to focus on the concept of focusing, the concept of alertness. I tried to focus my own thoughts, as scattered as they wanted to be. I had half a mind to lay myself upon the ground next to Amy and giggle with her, but…

I focused on the wand tip. I let my attention be consumed by the rough cut of where the twig had snapped from the tree… The wand tip was all there was… My mind wandered, but I pulled it back to the wand tip. Again, and again I pulled. Vicky was saying something, but again, I pulled my attention to the wand…

“Rennervate,” I whispered, again. “Rennervate.”

I felt a shove on my shoulder.

“It’s okay, Taylor,” said Vicky. “It’s okay.”

I blinked. The room snapped back into focus. The marble floors. The little rugs by the waiting area. The occasional glimpse of sunlight peeking through the clouds and gracing the shattered glass with little sparkles. Sound from outside. Sirens. Footsteps approaching.

I looked at Amy. I don’t think my attempts at the awakening spell had done much for her at all. But perhaps it didn’t matter, really.

With a laugh, I let myself slide to the floor beside Amy. I winced a bit as I realized I had forgotten about the blood, but it was too late to worry about now.

I remember when we used to lay on the floor, you and I. We’d pretend to make snow angels in July, or would pretend there were stars upon the ceiling. You’d tell me stories. I felt myself wince at the memory, only it came out as a little smile instead.

I shook my head.

“A fucking spell,” I said, laughing out the words.

“A fucking spell,” Amy agreed.


	8. The Hiding Dinner

“No,” said Vicky, for what must have been the tenth time.

The PRT agent’s lips may have twitched in irritation, but it was difficult to tell, beneath his mustache as they were. “Look, it wouldn’t take long. You could fly your sister back after—”

“No. Here, or not at all,” said Vicky, her face set.

We’d been standing outside the bank for nearly a half hour, now, only just outside the shelter of its awnings. The green cloth canopies had always looked rather strange on the stone-finished building, but I’d still have appreciated being under them. The drizzle kept landing on my glasses. I kept wiping them clean. Tentative rays of sunlight glanced upon the glass of the storefronts, still open, and the restaurants, which were beginning to close, their lunch rush now over.

The PRT agent with the mustache sighed somewhat theatrically. He cleaned his own glasses, staring despondently down the street—still closed for traffic, even though the police officers were quickly losing their patience.

Amy edged away from Vicky again. Vicky opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. She glanced at the cloak upon Amy’s shoulders, and her arms moved as if to readjust it, but she stopped short.

I tried to say it wasn’t a bother, for me. That I could go to the PRT building; that it wouldn’t be a problem; that I’d always wanted to see it, really. And I had, mostly. But each time I tried to speak, I realized I’d forgotten to breathe in, and each time the PRT agent tried to insist, I realized that my eyes had turned to Vicky, and that my stomach had done a strange, uncomfortable swirl.

The PRT agent took a deep breath. I started to feel another little wave of _something_ , although I was sure I was just imagining it.

“Panacea was just _shot_ ,” said Vicky, cutting him off. Oh. Of course she’d been. Right.

The PRT agent’s eyes slid towards me, but he didn’t say anything. I should tell him I could go, that I— but a hand rested itself upon my shoulder, wrinkling the dampened silk of my robe. I let out a breath. Looked over.

But it was Amy’s hand, not Vicky’s. I tried to think of something to say, but she wasn’t looking at me, anyway. She was just standing. Hadn’t Vicky been between us? Or maybe she hadn’t. I wasn’t sure.

The PRT agent turned away and talked into his radio.

Amy still didn’t look at me, though her eyes kept glancing over. Her hand remained on my shoulder. Every once in awhile, her breathing changed pace. Her eyes caught mine accidentally. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Instead of speaking, she nodded a tiny little nod before glancing away once more.

It was surprisingly quiet.

“Fine,” said the PRT agent, suddenly. “We’ve rerouted the Wards. Assuming you’ll heal them?”

Amy nodded before Vicky could respond, but the agent didn’t wait for an answer, anyway.

“Unfortunately, the Protectorate Parahumans are all still otherwise occupied. A higher-ranking PRT agent will take your statements,” he said. “I trust _that_ won’t be a problem? Or do you want us to call in the agents tracking Bakuda, too?”

Again, he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned and walked off towards the police officers down the street.

I felt myself edge backwards. Abruptly, Amy turned around. I jumped slightly as she placed a hand on each of my arms. I shrank away before I could stop myself.

“Sorry,” she said, quietly, lifting her hands away. “I— bench.”

I felt myself nod. Shakily, I turned. She offered an arm. I grabbed it, still feeling rather faint, though I wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t it been _her_ who’d been shot?

Eventually, she got me seated.

“You’ve never been to the PRT building,” she said.

I shook my head. “I want— I wanted to,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Amy, with a bit of a sigh. “Yeah. It can be like that.”

She didn’t say _what_ could be like that, exactly.

Eventually, the Wards arrived. Amy didn’t look towards them, at first. Instead, she seemed to study my face for a moment.

Finally, she glanced over in their direction, a strange smile on her face. “Old cars, right?” she asked. I hadn’t noticed them. They were old, I supposed. That same make as all the police cars used to be. “I told Vicky they should give her one. She’s already a crowned Victoria, after all.”

I blinked. I opened my mouth to say something, but instead, an embarrassing sort of laugh left me, along with a globule of spit. My hand leapt to my mouth, my eyes widening.

Vicky rolled her eyes. She must have walked over to join us under the shelter of the awnings, at some point. “Wrong colors. I wouldn’t be caught dead,” she said, sniffing slightly, not looking at Amy. I wondered what had happened in the bank.

The cars were a rather ugly shade of blue, with equally ugly red stripes that I supposed were supposed to look dignified. Instead, the cars looked as if they’d last been painted thirty years ago.

“Do you want to help?” Amy asked, her hand brushing against mine. My focus returned to her. After a moment, she continued. “Perhaps not. You should stay here.”

She didn’t explain quite what she meant. Instead, her hand left mine as she walked off towards the Wards. She exchanged a few words here and there as she healed them. I didn’t hear what was said.

Vicky sat by me at some point. She felt different than she used to, in that she didn’t feel like much at all. She just was.

She kept glancing over at Amy, then back down to her lap, and again, and again. I looked at her a bit curiously, again wondering what had happened, but she just shook her head, flashed me a weak smile, and looked away.

* * *

Brandish arrived, her polished black car a hair too clean for the weather. She parked across the middle of the street—still closed—and swept towards Amy at a pace that looked out-of-place for a middle-aged woman in a tan suit complete with tie. Her black briefcase seemed to flutter out behind her.

Amy was talking with one of the Wards. Gallant, I thought. He seemed concerned. She seemed irritated, but then, I supposed, that wasn’t unusual.

Brandish grabbed Amy by the shoulders and spun her around. Amy yelped quietly, her eyes going wide, her mouth dropping open. I heard Vicky make a noise beside me.

Carol Dallon’s fingers were whitening, and Amy squirmed a bit in her grip, before she was swallowed in a tight hug. Amy’s eyes darted between Vicky’s and mine.

A moment later Carol released Amy and took a step back. Straightened herself up.

“—done here,” I heard her finish. “Amy…”

Brandish didn’t seem to know what to say. She decided not to say anything. Instead, she closed her mouth, spun around, and walked over to Vicky and I, picking up her briefcase along the way. Halfway over, she slowed, glancing back at Amy, who finally started moving, herself.

Mrs. Dallon came to a stop before us, her shoes scuffing against the sidewalk. She leaned over to give Vicky a quick hug. I made to stand, but her hand raised slightly, so I didn’t.

“Victoria, I’m glad you’re alright,” she said, her voice softer than it had been a couple of days ago. “Hermione…”

She caught her breath. Behind her, I could see the Wards moving back into the cars in which they’d arrived. A few other cars, nearly identical, pulled up into the middle of the street just as Mrs. Dallon had.

“Hermione,” she said, at last. I glanced up at her eyes—a cool hazel—then back down, letting myself get lost in the patterns upon her tie, which at any other time I supposed I would find rather fetching, unlike her morose tan suit. “Thank you,” she continued. “I usually am more adept with my words, but when Vicky called…”

Had Vicky called? I suppose she had. It would have been sometime before she argued with the rude PRT agent.

Brandish lifted her briefcase. Fiddled with it. Somehow, she managed to open it, neither resting it upon anything nor dropping it, and she proceeded to pull out a box.

She handed it to me. It wasn’t very big. It was sparsely decorated, with only a picture on the front. I stared at it for a moment before realizing what it was.

Oh. Brandish was talking.

“…for your safety. Do you understand? It’s already set up. We— New Wave is paying for the plan. Don’t ever be without it, alright? Never, okay? And keep it charged. Please, Hermione. Promise me?”

I looked up at her. “But Dad… he doesn’t like cell phones. My mom…”

“It’s for your _safety_. Promise me, Taylor,” she said, firmly, her voice lowering as she said my name.

I glanced at Vicky, who smiled at me in what was probably meant to be encouragement. Then to Amy, who only nodded somberly while looking anywhere other than at Brandish and Vicky.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” said Brandish, her voice still quiet. “I don’t know if Victoria explained the Rules. But suffice to say, they aren’t always followed. If that happens, and you have this, you can call us. And we will be there. Understand?”

* * *

“I told her you’d say no, but she insisted. She told me to never go anywhere without it… I think she was worried. I know she was…”

“Who?” asked Dad, as if he had missed some crucial detail. He placed his utensils down upon his makeshift, paper-towel placemat, staining it with steak sauce. The utensils dinged slightly against the wood beneath. Between us, sitting innocently upon the small table, was the phone. I’d taken it out of my backpack in the middle of dinner and started babbling.

“Mrs.—” I started. I hesitated. Dad noticed. He waited, his hands resting in front of his plate.

I took a breath, but it caught as I realized I didn’t, in fact, know what words to say.

“Oh, so there’s a missus, now?” he asked, his voice pleasant, the corner of his lips lifting. “When did this happen? You didn’t even invite your old man to your wedding?”

“Wha— no! No…” I said, not sure how to respond to that. I decided not to. “I met the Dallons.”

Dad looked at me a bit quizzically, his head tilting slightly. “The Dallons?” he asked. “The— Not like the _New Wave_ Dallons, right?”

I swallowed. He fell back against the wooden rods of his chair back. I leaned back into my own, though mine was rather more comfortable, its back woven from thin, flexible strands of wood.

“And, uh... how do you know them?” he asked. “Why would they give you…” He gestured to the phone.

My mouth opened, but words refused to come out.

“Oh,” he said. His face seemed to sag. He took a heavy breath. “Oh.”

Oh, what? I hadn’t said anything. I pushed away my plate. He pushed it back to me.

I realized the stove vent was still on. I made to stand and turn it off, but Dad held up a hand.

This wasn’t how I’d intended— I hadn’t intended— should I have? I probably should have. I know I should have. I hadn’t been lying, exactly, I had thought, but _you’d_ never have taken that excuse, but I should have told him as soon as I realized it, even if he _did_ want me to join the Wards, oh, he’d want me to join the Wards, wouldn’t he?

He was going to insist, now, wasn’t he? I was going to have to work with Sophia. She’d always be there, I— I couldn’t— I… I don’t know if I can— I don’t know how I’d, I mean, _you’d_ say— I mean, I don’t know _what_ you’d say… I was only, that is I thought I could, I don’t know— It’s not that big of a deal, it’s, I should, I should have— sorry, I’m sorry, I should have, I’m sorry, I know I should have, I’m so sorry, I just thought, I just thought I could—

Dad was calling my name from somewhere, and again, and then again, and then a clattering. I felt hands on me— I couldn’t—

He shouldn’t— he couldn’t touch me… why was he looking at me? He shouldn’t— I shouldn’t—

Another clattering sound. My feet tumbled beneath me. Something banged into my shoulder. My head glanced off a wall. Then another. My hand grabbed. It couldn’t grasp, couldn’t twist, couldn’t turn the knob—

Again my name, why did he keep calling it?

The wall fell away. Again I tumbled.

Something soft. I grabbed and grabbed and pulled and grabbed and pulled and the world went dark and it was dark and it was dark and it was dark and it was warm and the air was becoming moist but it wasn’t like, it didn’t smell like, I mean it was just, it…

I felt the softness shift.

My name again.

Again.

A voice. Dad. Talking to someone.

My name again. He was still saying things. He kept saying things.

I clenched the fabric in my fists. Sheet, blanket.

My bed.

Still saying things…

Still saying…

Still…

* * *

Still…

I could hear Dad. I could hear others, too. I thought I recognized their voices. They were far away. Downstairs.

There was a hand on my shoulder. Just below the sleeve of my shirt. I could hear a voice in my ear. It was telling me that it was okay. That things would be okay… It was telling me to breathe…

My breath was still slightly ragged. I felt like I’d been crying for hours, although I did not remember crying. Still, somehow, my cheeks were wet. My body felt weak. My arms twitched here and there. I doubted I could move.

I was no longer laying as I’d been when I’d dove onto my bed, half-sideways beneath the covers with my head buried. Instead, I was almost sitting, propped up by pillows, the blankets covering my legs. Beside me sat the giant teddy bear, its legs likewise warmed by the blankets.

“It’ll be okay,” said Amy, again, her voice rather matter-of-fact. “You’ll be okay, Taylor.”

I blinked at her. I could vaguely remember her arriving, if I tried, but couldn’t bring myself to put in the effort.

“How did you…” I started.

“Vicky flew us,” said Amy, with a small sigh. “Carol arrived by car a few minutes after.”

“Carol?”

Amy sighed again. “Mom,” she said. It sounded as if it took her intense effort to keep her voice neutral. Her second attempt sounded less neutral, but also less pained. “Mom.”

“Why did you…” I wanted to ask her why she was here, but it would sound like I didn’t want her here, and it wasn’t that, it was—

“She— I— it’s hard to explain, really,” said Amy. Had she not guessed what I was going to ask? “Carol’s always, well, she’s usually been…”

Amy grasped for words. It looked as if they were just beyond her reach. She was looking off towards the wall, on which I had once hung posters, but for the past few years had left empty. She studied its bumpy, textured surface.

“She loved Victoria,” said Amy, after awhile. She looked like she wanted to say more, but she decided against it.

“Vicky?”

“She’s here,” said Amy. “Downstairs. She said she didn’t want to crowd you.”

There seemed to be a slight tone of doubt in her voice. I supposed, perhaps, that Vicky didn’t want to see me. But why Amy, then? Why not Dad, or…

“Why…” I again stopped myself before I asked a question that would make her feel unwelcome, but I’d probably already said enough—

Amy held up a hand. For a moment, I thought she was telling me to pause; I tried to think of what I could be doing, of what I might need to stop, but I couldn’t think of anything, and— oh, she was wiggling her fingers. Oh. Her hand. She meant her _hand._

A tiny laugh-breath escaped me.

“I can check your vitals,” she said. “I’m good for so— I’m good at that sort of thing.”

She flushed. Glanced towards the door.

“You can go, if you…” I started. She looked at me like I was stupid, and shook her head.

“What time is it?” I asked. It was, I hoped, a safer question.

She picked up a phone from the nightstand and handed it to me. Oh. Was this _the_ phone? The one they’d gotten me?

It had a clock. Half past eight. Behind the numbers, filling the screen, was an abstract sort of design, colorful and constructed of soft flowing lines. They seemed to shift as I moved the phone.

A knock on the doorframe. Under it stood Vicky.

“Right,” said Amy. “I… I need to talk to your dad, Taylor.”

And she left.

“Taylor!” exclaimed Vicky, her voice bright and exuberant yet still somehow quiet. Again, she didn’t feel like she had when I’d met her two nights past, or even as she had in the bank when she’d smiled with that glimmer of hope. “I was hoping to see you, soon!”

Really? Not this soon, surely.

“I was talking with Amy— I mean, just before we got your dad’s call, we were talking, and I couldn’t _wait_ to talk with you again. I was going to call you, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to get a call at night, so then I was going to text you, but you said you never had a phone so I wasn’t sure if you’d even look at your phone to check, and then I thought…”

She kept talking for several minutes. I doubt I would have been able to get a word in edgewise even if I could think of any words to say.

“…and Armsmaster—you’ve met him, haven’t you?—he was saying you weren’t wearing a costume, only the mask we’d given you, but today you showed up in that robe, and I didn’t know if that was new or if you already had it, and now it has blood on it of course so I was thinking you obviously need a new one, and I was wondering if you’d thought about it?”

She was still standing by the foot of my bed, a knee propped up on the bed itself. She wasn’t wearing her costume. Just jeans and a loose-fitting gray shirt with some sort of icon on it.

Oh. She was waiting for me to answer. Something about my costume?

“My old one’s beneath my bed. Needed a new one after, well… ‘Hermione.’”

“Oh! Can I see?” she exclaimed. “Did you have a different name before, then? It can be really tricky to change your name, of course, but people have done it. Hermione’s an awesome name, though. I love it, she was always my favorite!”

I shook my head. “No. I mean, no other name. I went out without one. Silly, I know. And yeah, you can get the costume out.”

She laughed, already diving beneath the bed. “You’d be surprised at how often that happens!”

I heard the scraping of the duffel bag against the carpet, and then she stood again, holding it aloft as if it weighed half a pound.

“This it?” she asked. I nodded.

I felt the side of the bed sink down as she dropped the bag upon it. There must have been more in the bag than I remembered.

She unzipped the it, and pulled out the costume.

“Oh my!” she said. “This… this is fantastic! Where did you get it done? Does Parian do stuff like this, now?”

“Uh, no…” I said. “And who the fuck’s Parian?”

As soon as I said it, my eyes went wide. I hadn’t meant to say it. It had just slipped out. I couldn’t remember ever having even said the word before.

Vicky grinned at me as if she knew it had been an accident.

“Parian is cool. Keeps saying she wants to break into fashion, but mostly she just animates mascots and stuff for shops and things,” said Vicky. “So, where did you get it? Oh! You _made_ this? How?”

“Um… spiders?” I said.

“Shit, really?” asked Vicky. I confirmed with a nod. “Is it, like, super strong? Is it what your robe is made from, too?”

“I don’t think it’s _bulletproof_. Maybe if I could get some better spiders,” I said. “It should hold fine against a knife, though. But no, the robe is just silk. Normal silk. I don’t have enough spiders to make another. As cool as ‘Acromantula Silk Dueling Robes’ sound, it’d take months…”

Vicky looked delighted, and then a bit crestfallen at the time it would take to make a new spider-silk costume.

“But you must! Armor is important, you know. Even Am—“ Vicky flinched, a flash of guilt crossing her face. She continued, slightly less exuberantly. “Panacea doesn’t even go into action, but we made sure her robes were well armored. Tinker-made, actually.”

I sighed. “Yeah, but… It would take months. What’s the point?”

Vicky stared at me for a long moment. “What do you mean?” she asked, at last.

“I mean…” I wasn’t really sure what I meant.

“Anyway, you can conjure spiders, right? Armsmaster told Miss Militia who told Mom who mentioned it to Amy who obviously told me. He said you could make bugs, like a biblical plague or something,” she said. “Imagine it: in a battle, then wham! Bugs all over ‘em. It would be so _terrifying!_ ”

She said the last bit with a shiver of glee that reflexively gave me an awkward smile.

“I… I can?” I asked. “Oh! I _can_! I thought I was seeing things… But how? Unless… _my_ blood?”

“You mean you couldn’t always?” asked Vicky. “Yeah that would make sense. Anyway, Armsmaster also asked Miss Militia to ask us to ask you if you’d have time to talk with him. I think you really impressed him. He also wanted to gently suggest that there are gentler ways to take down bad guys, but _I_ think he only asked us to tell you that because _Piggot_ told him to. Besides, not like Panacea even had to help those guys, not that she— well.”

Bad guys? Gentler ways? I tried to remember. I felt my cheeks heat.

“I… I used the Cruciatus,” I said, my voice quiet.

Vicky stilled.

“That’s… Nobody’s upset, Taylor. Not really,” she said. “Not even Piggot, I’m sure. It’s not an _Unforgivable_ , here. And besides, all that _really_ happened was bug bites. And they weren’t even poisonous. It’s okay, Taylor.”

“I’m… I think _I’m_ upset,” said Taylor.

Vicky took a deep breath. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.”

I could hear the tick-tock of my clock, up on the wall. I couldn’t make out the time, and I didn’t know where my glasses were.

“I…” Vicky started. “Look, I… I’ve done things I’m not proud of, either. I hurt some people. Yes, I’ve a bit of a reputation for collateral damage, and yeah, I’ve hurt some criminals bad enough Amy had to heal them. And… I’m not proud of that, of either of those things.

“But I’ve also hurt people I love. I… I have a power. I can make people feel things. Fear. Adoration. And today I found out…”

She trailed off. Her knees seemed to weaken. Wasn’t she supposed to be really strong? She let herself sit on the bed. I shifted over, closer to her.

“Amy. I think I… My family adopted her, see? And there’s been tension. Mostly because of Mom. Amy thinks I don’t see it, but I do. I just never know what to say…

“I never know how to make it better,” she said. I felt a sudden wave of something as she said it. A breath tore itself from me, and tears flowed from my eyes, almost painfully. My arm went to go around her shoulders, but I stopped, unsure if she’d want me to touch her. She answered the question before I could find a way to ask it, leaning into my side as she talked.

“But… Amy… I think my power got to _her_ , too,” said Vicky. “I… can’t really tell you more, I guess. Amy would… she’d kill me, I’m sure. But she was there, at the bank, when _Tattletale_ —” she spat the name “—told us. She was the one who shot me, you know? I don’t think she expected to hurt anyone. Guess nobody told her not to play with guns.”

She gave a messy sort of bitter laugh.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t. Neither did she. And that was okay.


	9. The Message

_Yes,_ I’d wanted to lie. It _would_ have been a lie, wouldn’t it have? How could it have been anything else? How could I have trusted myself not to lie, as desperate as I had been?

And so I had picked the answer which I’d liked the least. I hadn’t wanted to lie to Dad again.

“No,” I had said.

And it _would_ have been a lie, wouldn’t it have, had I answered any other way? The day had not ended up overly stressful, had it? Emma hadn’t bothered me. Why hadn’t she bothered me? She hadn’t even _looked_ at me. Did I _want_ her to look at me?

I’d peeked around the corners as if a basilisk lurked round them. I’d have used a mirror, but I hadn’t had one: I’d stopped carrying makeup to school almost as soon as I’d started. It had a habit of ending up on me.

But nothing had ended up on me today. Emma had kept her distance. Sophia was still gone. And there weren’t any basilisks lurking round the corners.

Nothing bad had happened. How could that be _overly stressful?_

I could have said _yes_. It would have been so easy. Could have told Dad, when he’d asked, that school _was_ overly stressful. Could have dug my journals out from wherever I’d stashed them and used them as evidence. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to go. Maybe, after whatever had happened last night during dinner, he wouldn’t have said I should go…

Saturday was still a day away. I didn’t want— but—

I fumbled with the front door. Felt myself lean on the handle as I swung it open. Stumbled inside.

My hands searched for the light switch. It was only mid afternoon, but the curtains were all closed. They had been, for awhile. Probably dusty, by now. Only precious few cracks of light could poke their way through, here and there.

I gave up my search as my eyes began to adjust. I let myself slide down to the floor. I sat for several minutes, I thought. But I wasn’t checking the time.

After awhile, I kicked off my shoes. Shoved them over towards the wall. Used each foot to pull off the other’s sock.

I braced myself against the wall with an arm, and pulled myself up. Gave my head a brisk shake. Didn’t dogs do that? Climbed up the stairs, trying to feel the strands of carpet squeeze between my toes, but my focus wasn’t strong enough to do even that and I just had to get to, just had to, just, my room… the stairs… I was on the stairs, still…

Again I gave my head a shake. I was nearly to the top.

And then I was in my room.

And then I collapsed onto my bed. Stared up at the ceiling as I listened to the clock tick and tock away the seconds. Minutes. Hour.

When I checked the time, it was already five o’clock. Dad would be home in an hour. Then there’d be dinner. We were meeting the Dallons. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to, but I did, but I didn’t. And I knew it was important to see friends—were they friends?—but they were, it was, well… it was a thing.

But we’d said we would meet them, and so, we would meet them. And afterwards, I’d sleep, and then—

Tick. Tock. Again, I scanned the ceiling. My mind drifted to orange juice. Dad’s fault, really. I’d been ten. He’d just gotten back from the store. Said he saw them squeeze it right from the oranges. Quite excited about it, really. And then somehow it had ended up on the ceiling.

There was orange juice downstairs. I could have some with breakfast tomorrow. Tomorrow. Another day filled with things I ought to do but wasn’t sure I felt capable of, no matter how much I _should_ be capable of them, no matter how much _your daughter_ should be capable—

Tick. Tock. There was homework to do. I didn’t want to fall behind again. It wasn’t even hard work. It would barely take any time at all. Barely take any effort.

I should do it, I know I should, you don’t have to _tell_ me I should. I should do the homework, I should drink the orange juice, I should go to school, but I—

Tick. Tock. The robes. I should at least make the robes, shouldn’t I? I didn’t know when I’d need them, and my current robes were a bloody mess. I should _want_ this, shouldn’t I? _Dueling robes,_ I’d called them, after the countless stories I’d read which had featured just such an item. I’d been so enthused. I should— I could—

Tick. Tock. The phone. It was on my nightstand. It had the internet. I had the internet now. Wasn’t that great? It was, right? There should be all manner of things to do. I could make an account on PHO and get it verified. It would be easy. Wouldn’t it? It _should_ be easy.

For awhile, I stared at the phone. Why couldn’t I— why wasn’t I doing anything? Wasn’t everything fine? Wasn’t I _fine_? Was I— was your daughter so much of a failure she couldn’t even—

I made myself move. Grabbed the phone. The least worthwhile of all the things I could do, but I was doing it.

It only took a few minutes to create the account. ‘Hermione79.’ Some asshole had taken ‘Hermione,’ it seemed, so I added her birth year. I sent a picture to the moderator, just as Vicky had told me to: me in my bloody costume, holding my wand, with a sheet of paper listing my new PHO user name. Vicky said they could tell if the photo was doctored, although how they managed it in under a minute I doubted I’d ever know. Probably tinker tech.

The “Verified Cape” tag was cool enough, I guess. I should feel happy about it.

I scanned over the main boards, not really reading them. Then the local— but I had a message. The moderator, again?

No. The account was a throwaway. ‘cape-e41ebcba.’ The message, however, was signed:

> From: **cape-e41ebcba**
> 
> To: **Hermione79**
> 
> Information on Bakuda. Can dead drop. - Tt

Tt? Ta-ta? No. _Tattletale._ I gingerly placed the phone back upon my nightstand, vaguely wishing I’d never picked it up in the first place, that I’d just stayed laying motionless on the bed, useless… I took a breath. Another. How? How could she, after—

I didn’t have to answer. I didn’t have—

Tick. Tock. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Dad arrived. He called up. I said something back. I don’t remember what.

We left for dinner.

* * *

There was a clock in the pizza place, too. I could see it tick and tock, even if any sound it may have made was drowned out by the din of the restaurant. I wasn’t sure if the absence of its sound agitated or comforted me. My eyes kept pulling to it. Vicky kept interrupting my absences of thought.

“—and Scion’s not getting any younger, you know, if his performance at the earthquake a few days ago is any indication. Then again, all we know about _that_ comes from the CUI. But there was also this guy on PHO who said he kept looking off into the distance as if lost in thought, so you never know, you know?”

Dad tried to exchange a glance with me. I noticed belatedly, as my eyes drifted back from the clock, still ticking and tocking away. If I were at home, I could be working on— well, there was plenty that I _ought_ to work on. But I didn’t know that I actually would. Maybe I’d just lay on my bed again, waiting for—

“Well,” asked Dad, in his most patient voice, “were there any videos?”

Amy was poking at her slice, her face kind of scrunched up and twisted to the side, as if she were thinking, but not really thinking of much in particular. Carol and Mark were smiling with a small touch of polite exasperation, the kind of smile one gave to allow for the indiscretions of a family member. They all lived with Vicky, didn’t they? Was she _always_ like this?

Vicky said there weren’t any videos. A moment later, I realized she’d turned to look at me.

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “Scion never struck me as much of a thinker. I guess.”

“I suppose,” said Vicky.

I ran my hands across the ruffled metal edge of the table. Let my hand tap on the tabletop. Watched its reflection within the glass, and within the ugly blueish metal beneath.

“Have you started the dueling robes yet?” asked Vicky. “You really should. You never know when you might need them, and they’d be _so cool,_ and—”

“Vicky,” said Mrs. Dallon. “As cool as I’m sure they would be, I’m sure Taylor will get to them in due time, should she wish to make them for Hermione. Have you actually _met_ Hermione, Taylor?”

Vicky flushed. I blinked. Oh. I tried to keep my eyes from glancing around the restaurant; across its collaged walls that looked far too cluttered with their glued and glazed images of the Brockton Bay cape scene; along the nearby tables, from where anyone might be listening in…

“Not yet,” I said, attempting to sound smooth and a bit suave. “Perhaps Vicky could introduce me. Is she nice?”

I flinched after asking. I really didn’t want to know if I was ‘nice.’

“Very,” said Vicky, her eyes peering a bit too earnestly into mine. “She’s very nice.”

“She is,” added Amy, not looking up from a still barely-eaten slice of pizza.

“What about you, Amy?” asked Dad. He seemed to have noticed that, of the six people at the table, only one had really been talking. “Have any hobbies?”

Amy shrugged. Perhaps there was a _reason_ why only one person had been talking.

“She spends too much time at the hospital,” said Mr. Dallon. He looked tired. Or maybe I was tired. When I was tired, everyone else started to look tired, too. I glanced around the table. Yeah, that was probably it. Dad was tired. Amy was tired. Carol wasn’t as tired, and Vicky definitely _wasn’t_ tired, but still. Just because Mr. Dallon, well…

Tick. Tock. I sighed. Amy was saying something. I tried to listen. “… die if I don’t. Not much choice.”

Mr. Dallon made a sort of skeptical sound. Mrs. Dallon’s face looked ever so slightly pained. She seemed as if she may have wanted to say something, but she didn’t.

Dad said something. Vicky said something else. Amy sighed. I didn’t think it could be healthy for her to put all that on her shoulders, but I didn’t say so.

The clock ticked and tocked regardless. I thought of tomorrow, then shoved the thought away— _tick_ —and shoved it again— _tock_ —and again— _tick tock_.

I wanted to ask to go home. I wanted never to go home. I wanted—

_Bang!_

I jumped. I wasn’t the only one. The Dallons had stood, their chairs skidding away behind them with a painful screech. Dad’s eyes were wide with alarm. Vicky had frozen, a piece of pizza halfway to her mouth. Amy only sighed, again.

_Boom!_

Brockton Bay knew its share of explosions, but these were either quite close, or quite loud. There was no flash of light, and we felt no shockwave, so it was likely the latter.

Mrs. and Mr. Dallon exchanged a glance. After a moment, Mrs. Dallon nodded. She shifted her gaze to Dad.

“Danny. Could we ask you a favor?” she asked, her eyes glancing over Amy and Vicky.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Could you take Vicky and Amy to your home for the night?” she asked. “I don’t think downtown will be the safest area, this evening.”

Vicky looked ready to fight, but Amy nudged her, and gave a nod in my direction. I felt my face heat. I wasn’t— how needy must they think me? I— were they even my— they probably only acted like they cared about me because they thought I’d—

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Breathe in. Breathe out. _Bang. Boom._

Should I have taken Tattletale up on her offer? This _had_ to be Bakuda, right? She was the mad bomber, wasn’t she? Would there have been time to act? Could I have stopped—

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. In. Out.

* * *

We made it home.

Amy and Vicky wouldn’t let me take the couch. But we had some sleeping bags. They each took one, patting them out to shake off some of the dust.

Dad had wanted us to go right to bed. And we’d tried. Lights out, all quiet. Tick. To—

“I’m gonna check my phone,” said Vicky, quietly.

Not that there’d be any news. Not so quickly. Vicky said she could call Gallant, but that he rarely knew anything, and even when he did, he rarely told her.

Tick. To—

“Oh,” said Vicky, suddenly, her face lit by the glow of her phone. “Oh.”

Amy sat up, the sleeping bag rustling beneath her. “Oh?” she asked.

“Bakuda.”

Was Vicky surprised? Who else would it have been? E88? Not the Merchants, certainly.

“There’s a video. She uploaded a video. It’s…”

And then there was a voice coming from Vicky’s phone. It was distorted electronically, leaving only a hissing monotone that sent a strange uncomfortable sensation across my skin.

“Brockton Bay Protectorate,” she said, her voice somehow casual in spite of its monotone. I wondered what she must look like. I didn’t really know anything about her, other than, well… bombs. “Every hour, more of my bombs will go off. Not even I know what each bomb will do. I only know they’ll go boom, and they won’t be nice about it. If you want it to stop, just let me know. And give me Lung! Have fun.”

Vicky didn’t say much after that. None of us did.

Sleep didn’t come for long while.

Tick. Tock.

_Bang. Boom._

* * *

“I’ve talked with Carol,” said Dad over breakfast the next morning. There was something about breakfast. I was forgetting something, again. Was it something important? It may have been. I should have written it—

“None of you are leaving this house, today,” he continued. “Not until later, at any rate. Mark and Carol may swing by and pick you two up, but until then, you’re staying put.”

Bakuda hadn’t stopped. The Protectorate hadn’t found her, yet. Breakfast had been quiet. Some toast. Some frozen pastries. Not breakfast table fare, but we ate it there, anyway.

“Taylor,” he said, turning to me. “Carol said you may be able to use Lung’s power to shield yourself. She also said you may be able to use Vicky’s power, if Vicky wished to offer. Either way, you will practice.”

“Of course I’ll give Taylor some blood,” said Vicky, her voice quiet. “She should also start work on the new robes. They might help keep her safe.”

Her voice held none of the fervor that it had the previous evening. Still, I clearly didn’t get have any input. Not that Dad or Vicky were wrong, either. It _was_ all stuff I should do. Stuff I ought have _already_ done.

Dad nodded. “I’ll be staying here, too,” he said.

I nudged my toast across the plate. Could we afford that? But, I didn’t want him to go, either, even if the Docks were further from downtown than our house was.

_Bang. Boom._

* * *

“Again,” said Amy. Vicky had tried leading. Then Dad. But we’d settled on Amy. I didn’t snap at her.

“Protego,” I said, waving the wand. I winced as I felt something poke at my skin from beneath, and I felt my feet lift off the ground.

“Try again,” said Amy. “But try not to die this time.”

“Protego!” I said, trying to remember how Lung had looked. I gave a small scream as the metallic scales burst from my skin. I hadn’t realized it _hurt._

Amy peered at the scales. She shook her head. “No. You’ve got some scales, but no forcefield. Again.”

“Protego!” I hissed, trying to picture the scales, trying to see things—darts, bullets, shrapnel—bouncing off.

Again, I cried as the scales punched through my skin; again, my feet left the ground; and again, Amy scrutinized. It wouldn’t be enough.

_Bang. Boom._

* * *

“Stupefy,” I said, trying to conjure a spider. My first attempts had been pathetic. Vicky had looked disappointed. I’d wanted to crawl up to my room. But _again,_ Amy had said.

“Stupefy!” I tried again, clenching my eyes shut. Acromantulas. Hairy and big and numerous.

I felt an odd sensation in my mind, and an odder one brush against my leg.

Amy screamed, and I opened my eyes.

Acromantulas.

The robes turned out okay, I guess.

_Bang. Boom._

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Dallon came and took Amy and Vicky. My room was empty. I laid on the bed, hearing the hiss of hearing nothing, punctuated only by the—

Tick. Tock. _Bang. Boom._

* * *

I should be practicing. If not that, I should be doing homework, or—

Tick. Tock.

A small little yell of frustration left me, but it didn’t really help anything. I was on my bed. People were dying, and I was on my bed. I could save people. I could heal them. I could fight for them. I could— but it wouldn’t be enough.

Tick. Tock.

No news. I refreshed PHO again. No news. Again. No news.

Tick. Tock.

Again.

_Bang. Boom._

* * *

I wanted to talk to Amy. But she was with her family. And what would I say? What _could_ I say? That I wanted to talk with her? I didn’t want her to feel like I couldn’t— I don’t know. Like I needed— I don’t know.

If I said I worried I should be doing something, would she say ‘Oh, Taylor,’ in that voice her mother had used? Would she tell me what to do, as if I had to be told, as if I didn’t already know?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _Bang. Boom._

* * *

Tick. Tock.

I couldn’t.

Tick. Tock.

Couldn’t stay here.

Tick. Tock.

Couldn’t do nothing. Couldn’t keep doing nothing. Couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t stay on my bed. Couldn’t stay useless. Couldn’t-

Tick. Tock. Tick—

I had to do something. Had to do more. There had to be _something—_

Tick. Tock.

> From: **Hermione79**
> 
> To: **cape-e41ebcba**
> 
> Fine.

_Bang. Boom._


	10. The Death Wish

> cape-e41ebcba **>** You pick place. Two hours.
> 
> **Hermione79 >** bench in bus stop across from fugly
> 
> **Hermione79 >** tape envelope underneath
> 
> cape-e41ebcba **>** Sure you don’t want to meet? Could eat.
> 
> **Hermione79 >** you said dead drop
> 
> cape-e41ebcba **>** Two hours, then.
> 
> cape-e41ebcba **>** If in costume, don’t be seen.

My fingers rubbed the hem of my sleeves. I’d always liked soft, smooth things, things which my fingers could press into yet glide across, and my fingers always did so, whenever such surfaces were in reach. The surface could be hard, so long as it felt soft: the glass of my phone’s screen had surprised me, its slick rounded edges giving way beneath my fingers. Brushed metal, too, was a frequent favorite: if I stroked it one way, it was delightfully smooth; the other, an intriguing yet orderly sort of rough texture.

And then there was clothing. Some shirts had awful tags. Crinkly and rough in a way that made my skin crawl. Some shirts had no tags. And some had tags slick and smooth, of a fabric that gave way under the pressure of my finger and thumb… You’d told me to stop reaching for them, sometimes. I never did.

The hems of my robes were like that: enough layers to have a nice heft, and to give way perfectly as I squeezed, and a slick smoothness that soothed me as I stroked it.

Tattletale didn’t need to worry herself. I wouldn’t easily be seen. It was night, and my robes… I’d wanted the robes to be green, but the silk had turned out so dark it couldn’t really be dyed. If I kept to the shadows, I’d barely be visible.

Beneath the robes, I wore a shirt and tie, tied loosely. Both were Dad’s, and neither fit me well. Beneath them, I wore my old bodysuit. I’d probably get warm, but it was better to be protected.

I should have made a new mask. Barring that, I should have worn my old one. My face felt strangely naked as the chilled night air brushed across my lips, left bare by the domino mask.

Nearly there. It had taken me almost the full two hours. The busses weren’t running, so I had to walk. I could have picked a location closer to home, but Tattletale was a Thinker. Didn’t want to reveal anything more than I had to.

Fugly’s was just another block away. There was nobody around. Not on the rooftops. Not in the alleys. Not—

Fugly’s was empty. Not even anyone in the kitchen. Was it closed? It never closed. The “OPEN” sign was painted on the glass.

But as I approached, I saw the yellow of the street lamps glinting off the ground, upon which that glass laid shattered. The brick walls had several bricks missing.

The door was gone. Why did I step through what remained? Why did I duck my head under the caution tape, and go inside? There was a bench, just across the street, where my attention _ought_ to be—

The first thing I smelled was the dust. Concrete and drywall and brick, all thrown up into the air together. It must have happened hours ago, yet still the dust remained suspended.

Another few steps inside. The remains of tables. And stains of red, and sheared, scorched chunks of fle—

There was nothing in my stomach left to heave.

I did not so much leave Fugly’s as stumble from it. I steadied myself on the remains of one of the brick walls.

Stared across the street and over to the bench.

Deep breath.

The bench.

Focus.

The bench. Across the street. No cars crossing it. Only me. I’d not planned to. Not myself. I’d planned to use my bugs. I’d thought maybe Tattletale would be watching, maybe from inside, but inside there was only—

_Bang. Boom._

There’d be more. More places destroyed. More people killed. The Protectorate hadn’t done anything yet, had they? Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they _could_ , if I sent them whatever information Tattletale had given me.

The bench. Nestled within the bus stop, half hidden behind a wall. It was that strange sort of bus stop, with three and a half walls. Better to protect against the elements, I supposed.

Cement supports. Wooden slats. And underneath, the envelope.

I sat, over behind the half-wall. Forced my left fist to unclench. Then my jaw.

Pulled the envelope from beneath the bench. Surprisingly light. Couldn’t be more than a single sheet inside.

I made to leave. Then I didn’t. Where could I go? Not home.

Opened the envelope.

But it did not contain information on Bakuda. Instead, it contained instructions, and a weird sort of barcode. A flash of irritation coursed through me.

Still, I pulled out my phone. Downloaded an app, as instructed. It was meant for secure messaging, apparently.

The app presented me with a random passphrase to memorize. _Passover. Prepare. Harebell. Arcana. Wale._ I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to concentrate. To remember. It made me retype it three times.

Entered a name. ‘Hermione.’ I was probably supposed to enter a fake name, but my patience for these games was at an end.

The final step was to start a conversation. Press a button, and then… but there was no place to enter a user name, and there was none given in the instructions. Instead, the app opened the camera. I pointed it at the strange barcode. And then…

> tt **>** Prove you are you.

I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to do that. A moment later—

> tt **>** I’m going to ask you a question. You’ll get ten seconds to answer.

What question could she possibly—

> tt **>** Where did you get your mask?

I hesitated. But I didn’t see how it would matter, and I was running out of time. I wasn’t sure how fast I could type on the phone screen.

> **Hermione >** dallons
> 
> tt **>** One more.
> 
> tt **>** What spell did you “cast” on us?
> 
> **Hermione >** stunning spell
> 
> tt **>** Incantation?
> 
> **Hermione >** stupefy

There was a pause. Should I have said? It wasn’t as innocuous as the mask, but I’d answered before even thinking, and there hadn’t exactly been time to think, especially after the phone had thought I’d typed ‘stinking’ instead of ‘stunning’—

> tt **>** Hello, Hermione.
> 
> tt **>** Sorry for all the cloak and dagger.
> 
> **Hermione >** couldn’t a tinker just hack this anyway
> 
> tt **>** Encryption itself isn’t usually the weak point. Hence all the steps to set it up properly.
> 
> **Hermione >** how do you know my phone isn’t hacked
> 
> tt **>** PRT knows you have it. Doesn’t know anything more.
> 
> **Hermione >** PRT?
> 
> tt **>** Everything they know, Coil knows.
> 
> **Hermione >** oh?
> 
> tt **>** I thought you wanted to know about Bakuda.

Yes. Which was why it was strange she mentioned Coil. But—

_Bang. Boom_

Had it been an hour? It couldn’t have been. It had been fifteen minutes, at most.

_Boom. Boom Bang. Boom._

What was—

> tt **>** That’ll be Armsmaster. He went off to fight her.
> 
> **Hermione >** where are they?
> 
> tt **>** Too far away.
> 
> tt **>** He’s going to lose.

I felt something clench in my stomach. All of this— if Tattletale had just _told_ me to begin with; hell, if she’d just told the PRT—

> **Hermione >** tell me everything.
> 
> **Hermione >** now.

And she did.

* * *

There was a kill order, Tattletale had said. I hadn’t believed her, at first. Then I checked PHO.

Many Parahumans had killed civilians. Few had killed so many. Fewer still so quickly. She’d not lobbed a single bomb that anyone was aware of; rather, the ABB under her had carried out her orders. They’d never been so vicious before, and nobody knew just what had changed. But there were suspicions. Multiple bombings had been apparent suicides. Either Bakuda was a Master, was working with one, or…

Disgust boiled into rage. I imagined tearing her apart. Shredding her, maybe even literally, just as her bombs—

I wished I had something to squeeze. I settled for once more rubbing the hem of my robes. I was shaking. My breath was uneven. Why? I didn’t know anyone who’d been hurt, did I?

_Except Armsmaster._ He had disappeared. I didn’t know him, but I _knew_ him.

What am I supposed to do? Tell the Protectorate all that Tattletale had told me, so they could send more heroes to die? Tell _New Wave?_ Get my friends killed? I know I’m supposed to tell them, I know I _should_ tell them, you’d _want_ me to tell them. But I can’t.

I…

Was I supposed to breathe? Supposed to count things? Supposed to feel the ground pressing into me, or something? I tried, but all I could see was ripped flesh and—

I was supposed to be doing something. Wasn’t I? I _needed_ to do something.

The buildings passed by me one after another as I walked. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been walking, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to stop yet.

East. East, east, and further east, then south a bit, or something like that.

Tattletale had said the ABB was bringing in more conscripts. _Conscripts._ To be mastered, or, more likely, to _become_ bombs for Bakuda. I wondered if they even knew. Had they guessed what was to become of them?

I glanced at my phone, but didn’t really see the map. I glanced again. It was only a bit further.

Lung had failed to kill me. Was his mad bomber going to succeed? Did I _want_ —

It was almost like back then, wasn’t it? When I’d screamed and run from Gladly’s class… I had been heading to my death then, too, hadn’t I? Was I there again, now?

Everything had been pointless, back then, hadn’t it? What was the point, now? Would I actually be able to defea—

_Bang. Boom._

Again I rubbed the hem of my robes. I couldn’t feel that slick gliding feeling. I could only feel the shaking of my hands, and the unevenness of my breath.

Another glance at the map, and two more again. Only a block, then a right turn, and then…

Everything felt so quiet. There were no cars. No people. No whispered conversations. Just my footsteps upon the pavement. The soft rustle of the night air.

There weren’t any convenient fire escapes. No stairs I could climb. I needed a vantage point. I—

I stumbled.

My hand grasped the back of my head. There was something—

“Yes,” I heard behind me as I swayed, a voice strangely monotonous for its shout. Had it been a shout? Maybe it had been a whisper, it was all the same, it was all…

And all I could think of was that my other mask wouldn’t have matte—

* * *

My eyes opened slowly, as if from sleep. That strange sort of sandy sticky gunk was caked in their corners. I tried to wipe it away.

Something was wrong. My head felt wrong. It hurt. My nose hurt. I tried to reach—

My hands wouldn’t move. There was something around my wrists, holding them down.

Not down. Up. I wasn’t laying down. I was standing, my stomach and chest strapped to the wall, and my arms held up beside my head, a foot away each, and—

“Want to see something cool?” asked a voice. And then something moved in front of my face.

Her head was inches from mine. Red circles stared at me, not quite glowing, but somehow capturing all the light in the dimly-lit room. Below her eyes was her gas mask. And around it all, flowing down across her shoulders, was her hair.

There was a laugh. It was me. The absurdity: she’d caught me because my mask hadn’t had a back, and hers didn’t, either, and it shouldn’t be funny but—

“I asked you a question, Miss Granger,” she said, her voice losing some of its monotony. How did she do that? Wasn’t it digita—

I screamed. My head jerked but didn’t break free from whatever was holding it down. It felt like electricity, it felt like knives, it felt like heat and cold all at once.

And then it stopped. It couldn’t have been a second, I knew, but—

“Tut tut. Three points from Gryffindor. Let’s try again, shall we? Do you. Want? To see something cool.”

She paused, pulling her head back slightly. Somewhere behind it, I saw a hand, restrained just like mine…

“Let me help,” she said. “The polite thing to do is nod.”

I tried to say something.

Fireiceelectricstabs—

Frantically, I nodded. No words, then. I could feel my heart beating somewhere in my ears.

“Better,” she said as she stepped aside. In front of me was a man. He was tall, and he couldn’t be forty. Brown hair, and—

I recognized the beard. I’d seen it before, beneath a mask. Armsmaster’s mask.

“Oh, so you’ve noticed Colin,” said Bakuda, still walking away from us. Was that Armsmaster’s name? How did Bakuda know it? He didn’t look surprised that she did.

“His tranquilizers didn’t even kill you. I don’t know how he thought they’d work on Lung. Don’t have time to find out. But Colin’s not what I meant.”

Armsmaster was strapped to the wall just as I was. His arms were held in metal manacles, and his head was supported on each side by metal panels. He seemed to be swaying from side to side, but it didn’t make sense, because his body was strapped to the wall just like his hands.

We must be in a warehouse or something. The metal paneling wasn’t the type used for much else. Belatedly, I realized the wall too was swaying and swirling… Must be me, then. It was worse where the room was brighter, just under the fluorescent lights.

There were a bunch of television screens on rolling stands and nearly as many computer monitors. A table with some wiring and chemicals.

But the room was too small. Armsmaster was barely ten feet from me. If he was strapped to an exterior wall, I must be strapped to— did it matter? And shouldn’t I already know?

Something was missing. My bugs. I could feel them, as if they were far away. I tried to reach… Were they coming closer?

I flinched as my eyes met Armsmaster’s. That look, again. Concern, or pity, or sadness, or I don’t know but—

“I meant this,” said Bakuda.

Someone fell to their knees, down onto the polished concrete floor. His arms were linked together behind him. My vision swam as I looked at him, either from the sudden movement of my eyeballs or from the bright light glaring down at him. He couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than me. Wasn’t he supposed to have a helmet?

Armsmaster made a noise, then a muffled yelp. Aegis, on the ground, said nothing.

“Very well behaved,” said Bakuda. “Maybe you wonder why. Or maybe you’ve guessed, Hermione?”

She paused for a moment, with what must have been a glance to me, though her head didn’t show it. I wasn’t sure what she meant, unless… she’d done something to _me_ , hadn’t she? Armsmaster, too. Put something in our heads, maybe. Was that why my head hurt? And even Aegis might feel pain if whatever delivered it was right next to his brain…

“Shh. No spoilers,” said Bakuda, the shushing coming across as a hissy gurgle, and her words, which ought to have been playful, vicious.

I searched the room again. Wall. Wall. Monitors. Televisions. Table. Wires, electronics, chemicals, and—

And my wand. It was not nearly in reach. Could I even do anything if it was? Was there a spell? A way out? I tried to think— Vicky, Amy, Oni Lee, Lung, Sophia—

“Time to go live,” said Bakuda. She walked out of view again. And then she was back, holding a phone out as if taking a picture of herself.

And then, I realized, that was _exactly_ what she was doing. All the screens around us, from the ones propped up against the walls to the ones sitting upon the table: they all held her. The lenses of her mask and the upward curve of its bottom edge made her look as if she wore a demented grin.

Her faces seemed to swim around me. Her dozens of red eyes left trails across my sight.

“Hello, Brockton Bay. And its Protectorate, or whatever’s left of you. You remember me, don’t you? I make the bangs and booms.”

_Bang. Boom._

The explosions went off, not so far away. Maybe they could tell where we were by how it sounded. Then they could die, too. I was going to die, wasn’t I? It was just like last time. I’d had a death wish then, and now— and now—

“I think you do remember,” she said. “You sent me guests. Look. Here’s Colin.”

The camera shook as she bobbed up and down on her feet in a bizarre parody of excitement that somehow felt more manufactured than genuine.

“And here, we’ve got Hermione,” she said, turning the phone to me.

My face looked back at me.

And I wore no mask.

My eyes widened, only increasing the glare. But… _Everyone_ would see this.

Everyone. Sophia, Emma— but they didn’t even matter, did they? Why did I think about _them_ , when there’s _Dad_ , or…

It wouldn’t just be people I know, would it? The Protectorate. The PRT. Coil. E88, the ABB— well, the ABB already knew, didn’t they, if they were the ones recording—

_Dad_. They could find Dad.

There wasn’t anything I could do. I was going to die, and they’d find my Dad, and I had to do something, there had to be _something_ —

Icefireelec—

“… I thought… always paid attention… class…”

Icefireelectricityslicingstabbing _pain_ —

“Will you finally focus?” asked Bakuda, the words coming out in an impatient rush.

And I could. I could feel the blood rushing through my veins. There was a pounding in my chest, my head, everywhere. The room was no longer swaying so much, the lights’ glare no longer so bright.

“And at last… We have Aegis,” said Bakuda, turning the camera downwards. “He and Miss Granger came to rescue their pal Armsmaster. Sweet, I suppose.”

Aegis kept his face blank. He looked up into the camera, his face a picture of defiance.

“Gonna say something, Aegis?” asked Bakuda. “I didn’t think so. Hermione figured it out, but I don’t think she’s gonna say, either. So that leaves me.”

She swept around the room. The screens again showed her mask, the room swirling around behind her. She leaned against the table. Her hand rested casually upon its surface, inches from my wand. If I could just have it, I could conjure a swarm… but what would a swarm do? By the time it got through her mask, she’d have—

“I put a bomb in his head, of course. But it’s not just a bomb. I can use it to do this,” she said, swapping the camera around again, in time to see Aegis shudder and collapse to the ground.

“Turns out even dear little Aegis can feel pain if it’s administered directly to his brain. And I think he’s a little out of practice,” she said.

And again, she looked into the camera, and from all the screens, she looked at me, her eyes once more tracing their way across my vision, leaving ghostly red lines behind them. My stomach felt wrong…

“It’s not just him. They all have bombs. And I’m gonna blow them up. Bang.” She gestured at Armsmaster. “Boom.” she gestured at me.

“Three hours. Unless you give me Lung. You don’t even have to remove him from your foam. I’ve got it covered. Hope you haven’t already caged him.”

She paused. Then there was a gurgle that may have been a laugh, accompanied by a shrug. She hopped off the table. Walked towards Aegis. Swapped the camera back around.

“But maybe you don’t think I’m serious. Don’t think I’ll _actually_ kill your precious little heroes,” she said, coming to a stop, framing Aegis so his whole body was visible. “Let’s test that.”

_Bang._ A flash of light, and then—

But Aegis was still there.

Only, flakes of _something_ were coming off him. _Skin_ , I realized. Flakes of skin. More and more, and then the flesh beneath it, all tearing away slowly. So slowly. Aegis’s eyes widened.

He held up for a minute. Then he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, he should be dead already but he was screaming and it echoed and it was all I could hear.

I could see Armsmaster yanking at the cuffs that held him to the wall, and realized I was doing the same.

It was no use.

What was the point?

It didn’t matter. Did it? It couldn’t.

Aegis was dead, or nearly there. Armsmaster was going to die. I was going to die.

Nothing I could do could possibly matter. None of anything I had ever done… I’d been here before. But I’d barely cared then, and the little I had, I’d been happy. _I’ll see you soon_.

And now, once more, I was going to die.

Why did I care? Why couldn’t I be happy, again?


	11. The Bug on the Table

I’d barely felt anything, last time I’d been about to die. I’d barely cared, and inasmuch I had, I’d welcomed it. Nothing had mattered. Not to me.

I’d _stopped._ Given up. Might as well have laid upon the ground.

Now, once more, nothing mattered. Nothing I could do could _possibly_ matter. I could yank against these restraints. Could yell, even as the bomb in my head fed me pain more raw than I could remember ever having felt before. I could search and search all I could, search for a way out, search for a way to fix things. It would make no difference. It wouldn’t matter at all, in the end.

But it did. It _did_ matter. It mattered to _me_.

I couldn’t _stop_.

Couldn’t stop pulling against the restraints, no matter how little they yielded. Couldn’t stop my yells of frustration, even as Bakuda gave what passed for amused snorts. Couldn’t stop scanning the room, searching for that escape, searching for a way to help, to even help just _one_ person… to help my dad, who was now in danger. To help Armsmaster, still restrained across from me. To help Aegis, still laying on the floor, fleshless, still making guttural noises every so often.

How long did he even have left? Bakuda had walked away, had just _left_ him there, lying on the ground. _He should be dead._

My wand was on the table, and my bugs… where _were_ my bugs, exactly? I could feel them. So far away. Or so few? Or both? But I could feel them. The tranquilizers must be messing with my head but I could still feel one or two, maybe even more, if I could only stretch. It was as if my range was feet instead of blocks, and as if everything within that range waded through water. I could feel the range growing, inching away, but it would never grow fast enough. Nothing was ever—

Even if I had my wand, it still wouldn’t matter. I could conjure more bugs, I could conjure a whole swarm, and they’d be right here, right in my range. But then what? What use would a swarm do against her? By the time it could get through her mask she’d have kill—

Focus. One thing at a time. The _then_ didn’t matter if I couldn’t get to the point where it _would_.

My eyes darted over to my wand, then back ahead of me. Bakuda didn’t seem to notice. She was fiddling at the table, her screwdrivers or whatever she used clinking against its metal surface. The wand sat over to her left, just as she sat over to mine. Maybe…

Hadn't Harry once lit his wand without holding it? Could I do the same? It shouldn’t work. Should it?

But there wasn’t a way to test it. Not with Bakuda _right there._ Unless… Did Bakuda even know I controlled bugs? If she didn’t…

I could test it. I _had_ to test it. But if she looked over and saw a bug that hadn’t been there before, that hadn’t _flown_ there…

I needed a bug. Just one bug. Nothing too suspicious. Just one, normal bug to grab her attention, so she wouldn’t notice if another suddenly appeared from nothingness beside her. I felt around the room, reaching for the few bugs in my range. Usually, I could pinpoint them all simultaneously. But now, I struggled to focus on so much as one.

One just below my feet. An ant. Couldn’t fly. One on the ceiling. It had wings, but it was so tiny… Could I manage fine enough control to direct it? Could a bug so small even get Bakuda’s attention? Could I even conjure a bug at all? I wanted to scream in frustration. Brought to searching through bugs one by one, and still, still, there was nothing…

Wait! Please, please… It was just there, just at the edge of my range. A fly. Large enough for her to notice. Inconsequential enough for her to ignore. It was just across the room, flying around a patch of wall. It entered my range, but everything was so slow, I couldn’t grasp it. And then it left.

Come back, please, please, come—

Again into my range. I tried to focus… And then I had it.

I flew it over to the desk. It wavered around drunkenly. I’d have bumped it into Bakuda’s arm even if I hadn’t been trying to.

Please, please don’t realize it’s me, please, it’s just a normal bug, just a fly…

She flicked it away! I barely kept myself from letting out a breath. Indeed, she must _not_ know I could control bugs. Maybe it should have been obvious: if she’d known, she’d never have been stupid enough to leave me awake.

I let the fly make its way over to the wand, over to rest near the wand’s tip.

But there was no way it would work. I’d never cast nonverbally before, let alone without touching the wand. It shouldn’t be possible. I couldn’t… what was the point? But then, what was the point in _not_ trying? If I didn’t try, I would die. If I did… I’d probably still die. But I had to. I had to—

_Stupefy,_ I tried to think. It was fuzzy. I don’t know what I was thinking, expecting it to work, I wasn’t even holding the wand, but—

_Stupefy,_ I tried again, shoving other thoughts aside, grasping at what focus I could muster, trying to imagine another bug next to the one already there…

Bakuda looked to her side, and I froze. But she didn’t go for the wand, and made no note of the fly, still sitting on the desk where I’d left it. Instead, she picked up another tool, long and pointed, and returned to her fiddling.

My eyes briefly went to Armsmaster. He was watching her closely, his face tense. Did he know what I was doing? Or was he only interested in what she was building?

I took a breath. Tried to make it sound natural, or, at least, panicked—which, I suppose, it also was. I closed my eyes.

_Stupefy,_ I tried once more, trying to imagine a fly—just one fly, with its eyes and its feet and its translucent wings—squeezing its way out from the wand.

And then I felt it. A fly. A _second_ fly, falling to the table, joining the one already there. Falling from the tip of my wand. I could hear a small thump as it hit metal, but Bakuda didn’t seem to notice. One conjured fly. Only one. It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be, not on it’s own, but—

I could make more. I _knew_ I could. I _had_ to. But however many I could make, what could they possibly do? Bakuda’s mask blocked access to her nose, throat, and eyes. A spider could kill her, but even the most poisonous of spiders would take too long…

Armsmaster was looking at me. My eyes met his.

He mouthed something, his eyes returning to Bakuda, perhaps so he’d notice if she turned. I couldn’t make it out. Something with an—

Again, he tried. It was two words, but I couldn’t tell what they were.

He tried once more. Only one word this time. And this time I recognized it. I’d seen it said too many times before, by people I didn't care to remember.

_Sophia._

My eyes briefly widened before I could control them. Did she see? I glanced over, trying to look half as terrified as I felt, but she wasn’t looking at us.

I knew what I needed to do. If I was lucky… It might kill her. It _should_ kill her. And that was fine, but what if she rigged her bombs to explode? I could kill her, and I might still die, and who knows how many more could still die, and how many more they’d take with them.

But what other choice did we have? Nobody else would leave her alive, either. She had a kill order for a reason.

I had to try. It had to work…

It would hurt. It would hurt so, so much. And I needed her distracted. Needed her not to notice until it was too late. If she would just look away from the wand—

“Bakuda.”

It was Armsmaster. I could almost hear his teeth grinding as he tried to concentrate through the pain.

Bakuda’s head spun to look at him. I couldn’t see her expression—though, I supposed, neither could Armsmaster, not through the mask.

I took a deep breath, trying to make as little noise as I could.

“What?” she asked. “I’m bus—”

And then, I spoke.

“Avada Kedavra!” I yelled, screaming through the pain as the device in my head lit up everything inside me, made everything so _loud_ , surrounding me in knives made of ice and fire until it was all there was.

Somewhere I heard Bakuda’s voice trail off.

But it was already done. As the pain faded, I saw the shadow—I _felt_ the shadow—ghostly and dark, comprised of hundreds of parts, slam into the back of Bakuda’s head, just as she was beginning to turn towards me.

And then the shadow was no longer shadow.

And Bakuda fell to the floor.

In her brain I could feel my bugs, dying one by one under the pressure… a skull was never meant to hold so much matter.

I let out a breath. No bombs had gone off yet. Then again, Bakuda might still be breathing…

Armsmaster was motioning frantically at the table. At the wand.

Right. _Accio!_ I thought. _Accio!_ I thought again. It took three tries to get a decent enough swarm. But then, it carried the wand over to me.

As it touched my hand I felt myself shiver. Not from the feel of it in my palm. Not from a feeling of restoration, of magic or power being returned. From _me._ From _relief._

A sort of laughing breath escaped me. A smile flew across my face. Armsmaster made a _hurry up_ motion.

How was I supposed to— Oh! Where earlier, I’d needed to put things _into_ Bakuda’s head, now, I wanted a bomb _out_ of mine. Maybe I could even get myself out of these restraints while I was at it.

I knew what I needed but I did not quite know the spell. It was not apparition, really. But was it close enough?

_Destination:_ I did my best to imagine forward movement. Just me, incorporeal, and not the bomb in my head; it could just fall away behind me…

_Determination:_ Oh, I had plenty of determination, determination to move, determination to have the infernal bomb out of me, determination to get _out_ …

_Deliberation._

A jerk forward… For a moment: resistance, and then…

I was free.

The bomb clanked to the floor behind me. It did not explode.

And then once more I was corporeal, falling down to the floor and onto one knee.

A breath. But no time to waste. Bakuda’s soldiers could arrive any moment, but Aegis— I had to help him, but what if— there were too many things, I needed, I needed to decide, but I didn’t know how, I could feel my breathing quickening and everything seemed far away but I needed to focus, I needed—

My eyes searched the room for an answer. Table, chair, wall, Bakuda, Armsmaster—

Armsmaster!

I held up one finger. “Aegis.” Another. “You.” Another. “Bakuda.”

A pause. A glance at Bakuda. Narrowed, weighing eyes. Then to Aegis.

He held up an emphatic single finger.

I fell to the floor by Aegis’s side. He was still alive. As soon as my wand touched him, I could tell he only had minutes left. Then again, it’d probably only _been_ minutes since the bomb had gone off. It felt like so long ago, and it also felt so short, and I didn’t know which was which.

“Episkey!” I said. I didn’t quite understand everything, there was so much _there_ , so much wrong, and so much of it felt so strange—was he breathing through his liver?—but I hoped it would be enough.

“Episkey!” I said again. “Episkey!”

I knew the spell could manage it. It had to, I _knew_ it. It shouldn’t have worked on Amy: it had never been used for more than scrapes or bruises in the books. But it _had_ worked, and it _would_ work again now, I was determined.

“Episkey!”

But it still didn’t look right.

I couldn’t manage any more. He was alive. He should stay alive, for awhile. But he was skin and bones, barely any flesh, and he didn’t wake—was he supposed to wake? Why couldn’t I—

I looked to Armsmaster, again. He nodded sharply. What did it mean? Was it enough?

No time, no time— Bakuda or Armsmaster? He’d pick her, I was sure. Should _I_?

Sounds from outside made the decision for me. I heard gunfire. Screams. Felt the ground rumble.

I rushed to Armsmaster. Pressed the wand against him, and— _destination, determination, deliberation_ —moved him through the restraints. The bomb fell away behind him and clattered to the floor. I saw him wince at the noise, even as he fell to the ground after it.

He got to his feet, pointing at Bakuda.

She wasn’t in great shape. Her brain was shredded, and there was so much blood inside, I didn’t know if it was swelling with it or what.

“Leave her braindead,” said Armsmaster as I was uttering the incantation. I bit back a sarcastic retort. I hadn’t been planning on healing her any more than I had to. Even _that_ I barely managed. It should keep Bakuda alive, but I didn’t know for how long.

I felt him approach behind me. “Your mask.”

Mask? What was the point of that, now? But as he slid it over my head, I felt a warm sort of comfort.

He stepped away. Something moved in front of my face. My eyes took a moment to refocus. An armored hand. Armsmaster’s.

I pulled myself up. Exchanged Armsmaster’s hand for Bakuda’s chair. Let out a deep, shaky breath.

“You did good,” I heard him say from somewhere, but there was so much noise, or maybe it was just me. “There was not sufficient material, but you did well with what you could.”

Sufficient material? What was he… oh… Aegis…

“You may still need to fight,” he said. “My halberd…”

Oh. The noise. It was the battle. Guns. Explosions. We didn’t even know _who_ was fighting.

Something large smashed into the wall where earlier Armsmaster had been held. The wall screeched as it deformed, the faded gray metal stretching and twisting into white.

“Hermione,” he said. “We gotta leave. The fighting could set off a bomb.”

I nodded. Tried to stand. When had I sat?

Gave my head a shake. Another. Blinked blearily. Armsmaster was waiting, Aegis in his arms. No masks for either of them.

We made our way across the room, walking as fast as we safely could. Metal sheeting lined one side; I’d seen it earlier. Metal grating lined the other, against which I’d been strapped. It was haphazardly bolted to the ground and ceiling. And through the gaps of the grating I could see…

The ABB _was_ here. But they weren’t attacking. They were just as we had been, strapped up to the walls. Conscripts. Some awake. Some not. All silent. And between them, hung up just like them, were columns of bombs of different shapes and sizes. How had she made so many? _Had_ she made them all?

I wanted to free her victims. I didn’t know if they’d been members of the ABB before, and I didn’t care. Nobody deserved this. I looked to Armsmaster, but he shook his head, face grim, as he hefted Aegis up slightly.

Instead, we went down the room, round the corner, and back down and around again, traveling a serpentine path, passing conscript after conscript. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty five…

And then, the door. From behind, I could still hear the sounds of battle. Crashes and impacts. Explosions and gunfire.

I stared at the door for a moment. The building shook.

“Hermione,” Armsmaster said, quietly.

I nodded. “Stay behind me,” I said.

I stepped around him and Aegis. Gripped the wand tight with one hand. Squeezed my other into a fist. Inhaled deeply.

“Protego!”

I barely grunted as the scales burst through my skin, sliding beneath the silk of my original costume, still there under my robes. I made myself sink to the ground as the forcefield activated and gave me flight.

Glared at the door. Angled my body sideways. Shoved. I didn’t care if it wasn’t locked.

The door broke free, falling to the ground with a clatter I couldn’t quite hear over the din.

I stepped out of the warehouse and into blinding searchlights. The whole battle was lit by them. I didn’t bother trying to make sense of it all. Bullets, foam, chunks of concrete, and shards of metal were flying every which way.

Even with me in front, Armsmaster and Aegis wouldn’t be well enough protected. There was too much, I needed—

The door! I grabbed it. Hefted it like a shield. Would it be enough? A bullet went through it and answered my question. It ricocheted off me.

This wouldn’t work. I needed something more. Something better. But I couldn’t see anything. Nothing in reach.

Something knocked the door from my grasp. Where it had been, there was now a long spear of metal. My eyes followed along it, to the ground from where it had erupted, and to the one who had created it. Overdone armor, confident stance. _Kaiser._

“We came here for Bakuda,” he said. He did not make to move. “But we could take you.”

I stared at him. I didn’t have anything to say. I barely had anything to think, even as I felt bugs prepare to leap from my wand, _itching_ to turn to shadow and _rip_ him…

He did not move to attack.

Instead, he disappeared in a blur of black.

For a long moment, I stood there stupidly. Something had hit him. _Someone._ There weren’t any more ABB capes, and who wore black _and_ flew, anyway, except—

_Alexandria._

Not just her. Legend and Eidolon, too, and in spite of the addition of all their own attacks, the sounds of the battle were already beginning to fade.

And then, two others landed in front of me. Glory Girl, and in her arms, Brandish.

They rushed forward.

I did not fight their embrace.


	12. Interlude: The Four Calls

She put down the phone, number half-dialed. She still remembered the number, even after so long. She knew it wouldn’t have changed.

Her thumb hovered over the next digit. _Two_. The five she’d already entered glared up at her from the screen. Its light seemed to reflect off the red paint covering her thumbnail, but the angle was wrong. The paint was chipping, anyway. She’d gone for manicures with Sophia, but that had been a week ago. Maybe more.

She wasn’t supposed to have the phone. The psychiatrists and therapists had said that normally, she should talk with her friends, but that in this case, her friends were part of the problem. Her parents had decided that meant no phone. She hadn’t been allowed to call Sophia, but even if she had, she doubted Sophia would be allowed to answer. She wasn’t even sure where they were holding Sophia. She wondered if Sophia had to deal with the therapists, too.

The therapists asked questions. Sometimes simple. Sometimes complex. She didn’t know how to answer any of them, even as her father insisted she do so.

“Whatever we need, to fix this,” he’d said. To fix _her._ As if she’d had a little slip of the pen, and now needed some careful crosshatching to cover it up. A twist of something she couldn’t name pulled somewhere behind her heart.

She hadn’t broken. She couldn’t have. She’d been determined not to. Hadn’t allowed herself. Hadn’t needed to. She wouldn’t have had the strength to put herself back together again, and so, breaking had never been an option.

The phone pulled at her eyes again. Her thumb shook.

Her parents always used the same hiding spots. The phone had been in her father’s nightstand. If they hadn’t wanted her to find it, they should have taken it with them.

She wanted to dial.

She didn’t understand why. She was supposed to be the strong one. The survivor. She went through hell, and came out stronger.

But she wasn’t the only one who had been through hell.

_Taylor._

Emma still remembered her number. It wouldn’t have changed. It wouldn’t have needed to. It was the one thing Emma had never used against Taylor. Why hadn’t she? She’d put Taylor through hell in every other way imaginable, just as she’d been escaping the hell of her mother’s death, and yet Emma hadn’t ever used the simplest tool at her disposal.

Taylor’s home had been the one place Emma had left alone. If she hadn’t, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps Danny would have— but, would Emma have wanted him to?

Emma lifted the phone again. Pressed the two, then the five. Stopped.

Taylor had survived. Taylor had fought. Taylor had _won._ How did she _always—_

Why was Taylor still the strong one?

Her finger held over the call button.

Dial.

* * *

“My question was for the Chief Director,” said Colin, stiffly. “Not for you, Alexandria.”

He did not allow his eyes to move from the television at the end of the uncomfortably small meeting room, from which Chief Director Costa-Brown stared down at him, her face coldly blank.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alexandria’s eyes narrow, and one of her hands pull back to her armrest. The other remained on the conference table. He could hear her fingernails tapping against its wood-like veneer in sequence. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Somewhere behind him, at the head of the table, Colin could hear Legend sigh. Eidolon, the final member of the Triumvirate, was not present. He had left immediately after the battle. Could not be bothered with the debrief.

“Armsmaster…” warned Director Piggot. Still, Colin did not allow his eyes to wander from the Chief Director’s. She glanced across what must have been her own screen. She had called in from her office, Colin thought, but it was hard to tell. In any case, it was the larger of the two rooms on the call. Colin was unsure why they had stuffed five people into a three person meeting room. They were at the PRT headquarters. Unlike the Rig, it had ample space, and many large conference rooms. None would be booked at four in the morning.

The Chief Director’s eyes fixed themselves directly on her camera. Her posture straightened slightly.

“And if my answer reflects Alexandria’s?” asked the Chief Director, finally.

“It is not plausible that you did _not_ know,” said Colin. He thought he noticed Miss Militia raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t follow your reasoning, Armsmaster,” said the Chief Director. Colin did not know why she bothered calling him by his cape name. It was not as if his identity had not been revealed to the world, and he was not even in costume.

“When you take special interest in capes, you intervene,” said Colin. “You have taken special interest in Hermione. Yet you did not intervene.”

“Didn’t we?” asked Alexandria. “I don’t believe your escape would have been so simple had we not arrived.”

Colin allowed his head to turn slightly towards Alexandria, but still kept his eyes pinned on the Chief Director. He could still see Alexandria’s face in the self-view on the screen, even if the angle was awkward.

“When special interest is taken, you intervene _before_ things happen,” he said. “There have been several anomalous incidents. Firat, Maral, Lunatone. Even some villains. There are over thirty cases. Each you took interest in, and prediction software suggests each one avoided a catastrophe. Several even report seeing a cape dresse—”

“And yet we didn’t know,” said Legend, his voice raised enough to cut off Colin. Alexandria’s eyes briefly looked towards him. The Chief Director seemed content to remain silent.

“Your precognitive thinkers _must_ have—”

“We don’t have precognit—” Alexandria started, but again, Legend interrupted.

“We didn’t know, Colin,” said Legend. “Our thinkers—” Alexandria tried to interrupt, again, but he gave her a sharp look. “Our thinkers did not know. Before nine o’clock last night, they did not register any necessary interventions for Hermione.”

“ _Your_ thinkers?” asked Colin, his head at last turning away from the PRT’s Chief Director, and over to the leader of the Protectorate. “ _Protectorate_ thinkers?”

Legend did not elaborate. His hands rested upon the table, fingers interlocked. His eyes were fixed upon Colin’s own. They blinked too rarely. Was it respect? An attempt to intimidate? Colin refused to let either phase him.

“And after nine o’clock?” asked Colin. “Bakuda did not find Hermione until at least ten. You could have alerted—”

“We didn’t know, Colin,” said Legend again, his voice quiet this time, and Colin missed the first word or two. “From nine until nearly midnight, our thinkers were unable to divine anything at all about Miss Hebert or her alias.”

Miss Militia sat back in her seat. She was followed by the Director. And, finally, Colin.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Legend’s eyes still did not leave his.

“Is that common?” asked Colin. “Do your thinkers often have such blind spots?”

“No,” said Legend.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“And did you tell Bakuda about these _thinkers,_ Armsmaster?” asked Alexandria. “You seem so very well informed.”

“I did not,” said Colin.

“But you would have,” said Alexandria. Colin finally allowed his eyes to leave Legend’s and meet hers, and he did his best not to allow them to waver. He straightened his posture, and tilted his head up slightly. He would _not_ be criticized for doing what was ri—

“He did the right thing,” said Miss Militia. “Aegis—”

“Secrets are secrets for a reason,” said Alexandria. “He told her his _name_. It’s not a small secret.”

“I told her what I had to,” said Colin. “If you—”

“Enough,” said Director Piggot, the word coming out with a slight hiss of impatience. “All of this may be discussed at a later date. Of more immediate concern is Armsmaster’s actions _after_ the battle.”

Colin twitched as a staticky hum started to sound from the speakers. The Chief Director must have unmuted herself.

“Actions?” she asked. Director Piggot did not elaborate. She only looked to Colin.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“I did what was right,” said Colin.

“You used PRT resources—”

“Hermione and her father were in danger,” said Colin. He felt his eyes narrow, even as he tried to maintain composure. “I felt it prudent to offer them protection.”

“Again, I agree with Colin,” said Miss Militia. “While there _are_ ‘Unwritten Rules,’ tonight has given us a rather clear demonstration that those rules are not always followed.”

Colin half-expected the Director to argue that ‘tonight’ had shown why those rules _ought_ to be followed. He began formulating a response, but the Director didn’t bother arguing the point.

“I suppose you want us to pull strings with Arcadia, too,” she said, snorting derisively.

“Yes,” said Colin. “She needs to attend a school where she can be properly protected. Arcadia has trained guards, and several of the Wards.”

Tap-tap-ta—

“No,” said Piggot. “Our mandate isn’t to Miss Hebert. It is to the city. If she wishes to be a part of that, if she wishes to become a Ward, then we could—”

“We will _not_ use her safety as a bargaining chip,” said Colin, his voice raising. His hand gripped his chair’s armrest. Its smooth, uncomfortable metal dug into his palm. He missed his armor. It would crush the—

“And if we _do_ use it?” asked Alexandria, her fingers ceasing their tapping and resting themselves flat. “Will you blab our secrets to _her_ , too?”

Miss Militia banged her fist against the table.

“If he won’t,” she said, “I will.”

* * *

Amy took a breath, then answered her phone.

“Taylor?” she asked. “Is everything alright?”

She already knew the answer. Taylor lied to her, anyway. Still, she was surprised Taylor had called. She had never done so before.

Amy let herself fall onto her bed. Her hand reached for where her teddy bear once would have been. Instead, all she found was blankets.

There was an awkward silence. She could hear Taylor make to speak once, then twice, but no words came of it.

“Doing much, today?” Amy asked. “We could get some ice cream, or something. I could probably get us a ride.”

“Look,” said Amy, as Taylor tried to deflect, “I really need ice cream, today, okay? I’ve barely been let out of the house, ever since the bank. If I was meeting you, I’m sure Mom would drive me. She’d drive you, too, of course. And your dad, if he wanted to join.”

Amy wasn’t lying, exactly. Her mom _had_ refused to let her go anywhere on her own, but she hadn’t tried to keep her in the house. On the contrary, over the past few days she had tried to get Amy to go along to the movies, the mall, and no less than three restaurants.

“Alright,” said Amy. “Text you in ten.”

* * *

“Two point zero zero five percent chance of problems in the next twenty four hours. Three point nine two in the next week. Four point five in the next month.”

“Very good, pet. And if I release the identities?”

“Three point five nine two percent chance you are attacked in the next twenty four hours if you do. Four point seven in the next week. Six in the next month. Candy now?”

“Yes, pet.”

He motioned for Mr. Pitter to administer the candy, and picked up his phone.

He dialed the number.

“Do it.”


	13. Of Choices and Beetles

“You’re going to drop it,” I heard Vicky say as she began her turn, shaking me from the decision looming before me. She hadn’t meant for me to hear. With all the wind blowing past us, I shouldn’t have been able to, and she hadn’t engaged her communicator. But bugs were useful, and the one I’d placed on Vicky to track her managed to pick it up.

I banked right to follow her, not bothering to look up from the phone. A few yards to my right, I let Amy turn Atlas on her own. Behind us, I felt Mrs. Dallon do the same with Beetle. Yes, ‘Beetle.’ I’d told her she could name it. Whatever. The beetles had been Amy’s idea, anyway. If I could conjure acromantulas, what else could I conjure? We’d made dozens, over the past few weeks. Brandish had insisted. Dad, too. Anything to keep me safe.

“He’s not going to drop you,” I muttered, but I knew Amy couldn’t hear me. Her hands gripped Atlas tightly, not that the beetle noticed through its hard shell. “ _I’m_ not going to drop you, anyway.”

Would you have been afraid, like her? Would you need one spider-silk seatbelt like Mrs. Dallon? Five, like Amy? Or none? Would flying enchant you as it sometimes did me?

I needed no belts, but then, I could fly. I sat on Witherwings sidesaddle. Quicker to dismount. Nothing upon which to get myself caught. Even if I couldn’t fly, there were dozens more beetles flying in formation above and below us. If I fell, one of them could catch me.

The swarm was not subtle. But then, everyone knew who I was. What use would subtlety be? If anyone wanted to attack me, they could find me. Better to be well armed, especially with how Brockton Bay had been the past few weeks.

It wasn’t like the Protectorate or PRT were offering a guard, or, at least, not one without a catch. They’d called again, last night. I didn’t answer. They’d left a message. I didn’t want to listen to it. I knew what it would say. Soon, they wouldn’t even— well, New Wave could escort me, occasionally, but they couldn’t protect Dad. Not all the time.

He and I were still in the PRT Housing Complex. He rarely made it into work. More often, he videoconferenced in. Armsmaster had arranged it, but it didn’t really work very well. Armsmaster said such systems never did. It was still better than him going into work, unprotected. But I wasn’t sure how much longer the PRT would—

I checked my phone again. It wouldn’t be long before I got a message. She didn’t seem to care that I refused to respond. Still nothing.

Vicky veered left. I followed, still staring at the phone screen.

We didn’t always fly. Sometimes, the Dallons would drive me. But Mrs. Dallon had said that, if we didn’t use our powers and fight here and there under controlled circumstances, we’d start using them under _uncontrolled_ circumstances. After hearing it put that way, Dad had begun insisting I join New Wave patrols after school. It was something to do, I guess. It wasn’t enough, though. People were still afraid to leave their houses for much more than work. First Bakuda. Now, Nazis waging war.

Again, I checked my messages. Still nothing.

Arcadia was alright. Enjoyable, even, I supposed. No Emma. Not that she’d stopped calling me: the wonders of call forwarding. Again, Armsmaster had set it up, more for Dad than for me. I tried not to answer her, either, but I still caught her voicemails here and there. I still didn’t understand them, I still wanted to, and I still didn’t. Something was wrong with her, and I couldn’t figure out what.

My phone buzzed.

> tt **>** Kaiser meeting gang at 8th & Hamilton.

Kaiser wouldn’t have been able to do that if Alexandria hadn’t let him slip away. But perhaps that wasn’t fair to Alexandria. A few taps on my phone alerted the PRT, but even if they caught him, I doubted they’d keep him for more than a few days, even if most of his capes had abandoned him. I started to put my phone back in my pocket, but it buzzed again.

> tt **>** I know you’re reading these. So you know I know.

I sighed slightly, but still didn’t reply. It had been almost a month since she’d nearly gotten me killed. Were I honest with myself, I’d acknowledge my own part in what had happened: that just as surely as she’d given me information, whatever her motivations may have been, so too had I acted upon that information. And—were I honest with myself—would I not have been just as reckless in her absence?

Honestly, the last thing I could give myself would be honesty, for if I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that which I am unprepared to admit in any more than a whisper… Yet, were I dishonest with myself—could I tell myself any lie—I’d tell myself Bakuda had never taken me. I’d believe that my dad was still safe. That I didn’t need to consider becoming a Ward. That it wouldn’t matter, really.

Ultimately, I still had to make a choice, I still hated having to make it, and I still blamed Tattletale, even if I doubted feeding me the information had been her idea to begin with.

It had probably been Coil’s. Tattletale seemed to know too much about him. She probably reported to him. Then again, she could _be_ Coil, I supposed.

Perhaps Coil had wanted me dead. Perhaps he’d hoped I would kill Bakuda. Perhaps he didn’t care either way, or hoped we both killed each other. In any case, I doubt he had my safety in mind.

I glanced back at Mrs. Dallon. Brandish, really, in costume as she was. I caught her eye, and tapped my pocket. She gave a quick nod back. We didn’t adjust our patrol: the PRT and the Protectorate would handle it, and if they couldn’t, they could always call us. Not that they would.

My body tensed as I heard something through the senses of a hundred bugs. But even through the echoing of unsynced audio passed through a half-dozen of the lower-flying relay beetles spread around us, this was a sound I could easily make out. I pushed the button strapped to my wrist and spoke.

“Gunfire,” I said. “Inside the red building a few blocks ahead and to the right. No obvious sign of powers.”

Just bangs and screams.

Vicky came to an abrupt halt. Brandish nearly rammed her. She yelled briefly at her daughter, but didn’t bother turn it into an argument. Instead, she pulled out her phone, her other hand gripping Beetle.

I brought the rest of the bugs to a stop as well, and readied them for a dive in case Brandish chose to engage. I tried to pay attention to whatever was happening below. I shifted my bugs around to try to sync up the sound better, but I still could barely make out any words. Just more bullets and shouts.

Gunfire was uncommon, especially during the day, even with the Nazis waging war. It was too easily noticed, and too quickly reacted to in a town full of capes. But neither Glory Girl nor Brandish were all that well protected against it: Brandish’s shield didn’t surround her, and Glory Girl’s forcefield would only survive a shot or two. And Amy… her powers didn’t give her many weapons. At least, not many she’d be willing to use. Still, all three Dallons now sported spider-silk bodysuits. I hoped it would help better protect their vitals.

“The building was formerly used by Nazis,” I heard through my earpiece, after a few moments. Brandish refused to call them Empire Eighty Eight. They weren’t an empire. They were Nazis. “The PRT suggests the Nazis are attempting to reclaim it, potentially from the Merchants. They seem particularly active today.”

Apparently the Nazis wanted to retake the offense. Not that they weren’t always offensive, both literally and figuratively. But they’d lost a lot of territory over the past few weeks, and their organization had fractured into different groups I didn’t really bother to keep track of. They’d not taken well to the publicizing of several of their identities. I was certain Tattletale had a hand in it, but again, I doubted releasing the information had been her idea.

“Right,” said Brandish. “Hermione, shield and go in first. Pull back at any sign of cape involvement. Glory Girl, prepare to follow with me. Panacea, if you join, be sure your hood is up. And wear your mask.”

“Should I use spitters and tacklers?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Brandish, tersely. “Dive in three. Make it quick, hard, fast, and quick; they may spot us soon and call for backup.”

I checked my own hood. Voluminous as Eidolon’s, it billowed in the wind as I flew. Two small buckles inside kept it tethered to my mask. Like my old one, my new mask covered my entire face. It was the same dark gray as the rest of my armor, with the exception of the goggles, which glowed green. They could glow any color, really. LEDs were nice like that. I still wasn’t sure how Armsmaster had gotten the glow so even without the lights shining into my eyes.

My wand was strapped to my arm. We’d fashioned a simple leather strap for it, so I wasn’t afraid of it dropping.

“Protego!” I said. Immediately, I could feel the scales cover me. Over them, Vicky’s forcefield. Around my sides and behind me, shields of hard light.

I brought Witherwings directly above the building. One more second, and…

I did not dive. Instead, I simply slipped off Witherwings. I basked in the weightless feeling. It wouldn’t last long: only a handful of seconds. Probably no more than five or six. It was what I’d thought flight would be like. Instead, flight was like standing on a surface I could move. Enchanting only when I stopped and let gravity take me.

“Really, Hermione?” a spider heard Brandish say. I didn’t care. The ground approached faster and faster. I could have used my flight to accelerate faster still, but I didn’t, not yet: I didn’t want the feeling to end so soon. Instead, I only nudged myself a little left, a little forwards, and then…

The instant before impact, I _pushed_. It was enough to crash me through the roof, and a foot into the wood-covered concrete below. Splinters of timber and shingles clattered throughout the room.

Again I heard shouting, this time with my own ears. They couldn’t see me, not through the dust of demolished concrete, but it didn’t stop them from shooting. A bullet ricocheted off my forcefield. Another two off my robes. None made it near my scales, which were stronger still. There was a reason I went first in non-cape battles.

They couldn’t see me, but I was not so disadvantaged: through my bugs, I felt everything. Seven on one side of a firefight, four hunkered down behind a counter on the other. I didn’t know which side was which, and I didn’t much care. Five grenades, three of which were tucked away under a shelf, out of easy reach of either gang. And, cleverly hidden beneath an old rug some feet behind me, a trapdoor. I’d always wanted to go through a trapdoor. I wondered if, had I pushed my flight harder, I’d have punched through the concrete foundation and into whatever room lied below.

“Stupefy! Stupefy!”

Swarms erupted from the end of my wand, and joined the swarm I’d already been amassing in the building. They were not alone.

Through the hole in the ceiling flew my beetles, their dark forms shimmering in the dusty haze. A dozen of them, none meant for transport, all heavily armored. Eight tacklers. Four spitters.

I felt a thrill flow through me, whether it was of accomplishment or excitement or a feeling of _power_ , I didn’t care. I felt amazing.

Bang!

The grenade knocked me off my feet. I felt myself roar. I wondered if this was what Lung felt like? A blast of heat left me, and my robes felt uncomfortably tight. But for all the heat, I still felt pretty cool.

“Four grenades active, most out of reach,” I relayed through the communicator, trying to sound as professional as I could. “Five— make that six down.”

The spitters had begun spitting. They combined bile with a skin-permeating tranquilizing venom. The resulting substance was unpleasantly sticky. The PRT was not fond of cleaning up the result, but was less fond still of my own cleaning methods. The substance was somewhat flammable.

“Six people, or six grenades?” asked Brandish.

“People,” I said. “Should I have the spitters knock them all out?”

“It really doesn’t matter,” said Brandish.

“Do I do something with the grenades?”

“As long as they can’t use them, they’re fine where they are. I can ask Miss Militia to give you weapons training, later.”

I could feel my robes loosening. There weren’t many bullets flying, now.

“You should be good to come down, now,” I said. “Not much left, though.”

The dust was beginning to clear, and I could begin to make out what passed for the room’s decor. Wood paneling up half the wall, ugly green patterned wallpaper down the rest. Rough-textured puce rugs here and there that may have once been red. The wooden planks of the flooring were gnarled and softened.

“There’s a trapdoor,” I said, as I felt Brandish approach behind me. “Don’t feel anything down there, though. Maybe a few old bottles of liquor. Nothing resembling drugs or money. Or people. Or doors.”

I still wanted to go through it, but I didn’t want to say so. Part of me was disappointed there wasn’t a Devil’s Snare waiting below. I felt Brandish nod. I wasn’t looking at her, so I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me, or if it was more to herself.

“Capes incoming,” said Amy, her voice coming through the communicator with a bit of a sigh. “Skidmark, I think. A few others with him. And Hookwolf, along with some of whatever he called his faction.”

“Nazis,” said Brandish. “They’re called—”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Amy. “They’ll be there in a minute. Assuming they make it inside before attacking each other.”

I turned to Brandish. She was still seated on Beetle, but had landed. She held a shield on one arm, and a war hammer in the other. Glory Girl was floating beside her.

“Should we fight them?” I asked.

Brandish’s eyes glanced over the bodies on the ground, all still breathing, and over to the entrance, still closed. Finally, back to me.

“Do you want to fight them, Hermione?” she asked.

“ _I_ want to,” said Vicky.

Did I? Should I? It would be a chance to catch Hookwolf. But wouldn’t he just escape, again, anyway? But then, even if he were gone for a couple days… wouldn’t that mean _something_? Especially now? But— I didn’t know. I couldn’t—

“I think we should get you home, Hermione,” said Brandish. And the decision was out of my hands.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Vicky as I shuffled over to where Witherwings had parked himself. I felt… I wasn’t sure. Like I should be more. Like I had failed, somehow. I was being silly, but I supposed sometimes I was allowed.

The buzzing wings roared as we lifted off, up through the hole in the roof and into the afternoon sky. I could see Skidmark already layering fields, and Hookwolf already changing into a shifting mass of blades reminiscent of the wolf for which he was named. My hand reached for the communicator.

“Should I…” I started. I held the connection for a moment, then dropped it. Hadn’t Brandish already decided what to do?

“Yes, Hermione?”

“I could still send the spitters after them,” I said. “If you think it’d help.”

“Do it,” said Brandish.

And I did, and we left.

* * *

My bugs told me that the majority of the four hundred seventy eight apartments in the PRT Housing Complex, affectionately known as the PHC, had never seen an occupant. The hundreds of empty apartments had not, however, encouraged the PRT to part with any more than the single two bedroom unit that they had allotted Dad and I.

The PRT likely regretted that decision. Without the use of additional space inside the building, I had to park my swarm outside. Very few PRT agents ventured into the complex’s courtyard, lately.

As we approached, several of the beetles flew off to perch upon the roof, while several more found spots amongst the trees and shrubberies. A few preferred the pool. Or maybe I was preferring it for them.

We landed in a small grassy area I’d commandeered into a landing pad. I slipped off Witherwings. Said my goodbyes to the Dallons. A couple of quick hugs. They went off towards building one, while I headed towards building four.

The courtyard was infested with my swarm. Perhaps the PRT would find somewhere else for me to stay, if I joined. Somewhere with more space. But I’d have to—

I took a breath, and tried to let the thought go. I’d have to think about it, eventually. Perhaps even tonight. But right now, I didn’t think I could. Right now, there was only the ground: cement shaped into square tiles, dyed some color almost like terra cotta, but lighter. Step, step, step… Beside the pathway were some shrubs, then mulch, then some trees. I could see one of my beetles. Another.

The path gave way to more cement as I reached the doors. Big glass things that looked as if they were added later, perhaps by the PRT. On each side of them stood PRT officers. I couldn’t see their faces. They held guns, or what looked like them. Maybe they shot containment foam. I didn’t know much about guns. Still, my breath caught slightly, as it always did.

I thought the PRT’s focus was supposed to be regulation and public relations. Instead, they felt more like military. Weren’t they the ones in charge of the Wards? But—

Two guards outside, two inside. They nodded at me as I entered. I tried to nod back. I held up my key fob to the reader. Entered a code on the number pad. The door unlocked.

Inside, the walls were the same stucco as the outside. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to put up artwork. Generic, colorful, abstract, and somehow dated. I was tempted to sneak down one night, distract the guards, and replace it with photos of my beetles. But I’d have to get them printed first. A lot of effort, and it wouldn’t be that funny, really.

Up the elevator, mercifully empty. Down the hall. Carpet floors—

And then I was home.

Dad was in his bedroom. It was also his office. I could hear him talking. I went to my own room.

I sat down behind my desk with a heavy sigh. I wasn’t sure what I was sighing about. The day had been pretty decent. Arcadia wasn’t bad. School was mostly fun. The patrol had gone well. Still. I yawned. Either I was tired, or it was depression, or both. It was usually both.

The fight had been a lot of fun, I tried to remember. But the memory didn’t come as easily as I’d have liked. I glanced around the room. The window, which overlooked the patio. The shelves, with books I didn’t feel like reading. The stuffed bear brought a small quirk to my lips, and the telephone— Well, Emma would call soon. She always did. I shouldn’t answer her. I usually didn’t.

What had happened, with her? Had I— no, I don’t think I’d done anything. Something had happened, but I don’t think it had been me. She’d tried to tell me it was. That after you’d died I’d been no fun to be around, but… And even if it were true, that wouldn’t really excuse who Emma had become.

I’d talked about it with Amy. She’d told me to tell Dad. That he could get Emma’s number blocked. I still hadn’t. What if— but it was silly. I tried to tell myself I was allowed to be silly sometimes, but it didn’t work so well this time. We’d been such good friends, once. Somehow, it felt like I’d be abandoning her, just as she’d abandoned me. You’d told me two wrongs didn’t make a right. I knew this wasn’t what you meant. But still.

Whatever. Enough worrying about a telephone. Instead, I logged into PHO. I had a computer, here. The novelty still hadn’t worn off.

As always, people were talking about Scion. This time, he’d been accosted by someone who’d lost their family to the Simurgh in Canberra. Scion had snapped and thrown them into a building. The person had been lucky to hit a ground-floor glass display rather than something more sturdy. Scion had then vanished with a crack, presumably going supersonic.

There was video. It was bizarre. It was also somehow comforting, in a disturbing sort of way, knowing I wasn’t the only one going through things. At least I’d not attacked anyone. Well, not anyone who didn’t need to be attacked.

More about Eidolon’s dog. There was some speculation it was the only thing he cared about, as he always seemed to vanish from any engagements at the earliest opportunity. But then, he’d always done that, even before he had a dog.

Brockton Bay…

Kaiser had gotten away again. But Hookwolf and Skidmark _hadn’t_. I allowed myself a bit of satisfaction, maybe even a little joy. Maybe more than a little. I was already anticipating tomorrow’s patrol. Maybe this time, I’d actually be up for fighting some other capes head-on.

The PRT hadn’t credited me, of course. And they wanted me to join? I rolled my eyes, but felt myself laugh, anyway.

I clicked on Coil’s thread as soon as I saw it, but it was just speculation. People still weren’t sure if he had a power. Some were suggesting some kind of probability control, but others dismissed that as not entirely feasible beyond parlor tricks.

Precognition, on the other hand… How would I even fight that? Maybe the PRT had a way— but then, Tattletale had said Coil knew everything the PRT did. Then again, wouldn’t Coil _want_ me to think that? I didn’t know what to think. And it still didn’t help me make a decision about the PRT.

I was shaken from my musings when the home phone finally rang. I knew I shouldn’t talk with her. I should just answer it before Dad could, and hang up.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four. Answering machine.

Again. Twice. Three times…

It stopped.

“Taylor?” came Dad’s voice through my closed door. “It’s Emma. You want to pick it up?”

“Alright,” I said. “Yeah.”

Might as well. It would distract me from thinking about the PRT, anyway.

“Hello, Emma.”

“Hi Taylor,” she said, as if nothing were wrong. I held back a sigh. Waited for her to say something. Waited some more. Waited long enough to get distracted by the sounds from outside. Wind, mostly. A bit of traffic.

This time I did let myself sigh.

“What do you want, Emma?”

“I just wanted to talk,” she said.

“And?” I asked.

She didn’t say anything.

“What happened, Emma?” I asked, finally.

I heard her take in a breath. A few more small breaths, as if she kept almost allowing words to escape her, and kept holding them back.

“I…” she started. “I survived.”

“Survived,” I said.

“Survived. Like you.”

“Like—” I started, unsure what I was saying. I wasn’t sure what she had meant. “You… I don’t…”

“I just wanted to… I don’t know,” said Emma.

I wished I understood. Wished I knew what had happened. What was still happening. I wished I knew what to do. What to say.

My phone buzzed.

“I have to go,” I said.

I didn’t say goodbye. Instead, I just hung up and put down the home phone. Picked up my own.

> tt **>** Look, I didn’t want you to get hurt.

The first time I read the words I didn’t really register them. I gave my head a small shake. I could think about Emma later.

Tattletale.

> tt **>** I’m making a run for it. I worked for Coil. It wasn’t by choice.
> 
> tt **>** I’d hoped you could help me. Maybe you still could. He’ll come after me, of course.

I probably shouldn’t believe her. Even if I did, I didn’t see how I could help, and I wasn’t about to ask her. I could talk with New Wave, but they didn’t have the manpower to go after Coil, so to speak. Coil had mercenaries with guns. New Wave was stronger against other capes. Particularly against brutes. And they’d already done so much for me, anyway.

And the PRT—

> tt **>** He also has Dinah Alcott. Mayor’s niece. Parahuman. Not sure what her power is. Probably precog. Think he’s drugging her. Thought you’d want to know.
> 
> tt **>** If you do anything, he’ll know you know. If you don’t, you’ll probably be safe.

Wasn’t Dinah just a kid? A flash of anger rushed through me. I could feel my wand grow hot, still dangling from its strap. The last time I’d felt this anger, I’d gone after Bakuda. I tried to remember _calm_. Tried to remember that, as justified as the anger was, it wouldn’t be hitting me so hard if it weren’t for everything else I was worrying about. I felt I had to do something, but I—

> tt **>** I’ll message daily. In case you want to know if he’s got me.

But there was really only one thing to do. A choice I always knew I’d make, as much as I hated to make it.

I should call Amy, I knew, or Mrs. Dallon, or Vicky. But what would I say? I didn’t even really know the words. And I already knew the decision I would make. I’d call them after. I’d be in safe enough hands until then.

My hand reached for my phone. I dialed.

“I’d like to speak to the Director. In person, if she’ll have me.”

* * *

I should have flown, but Dad didn’t like flying. Instead, the PRT sent a van.

The traffic was suffocating. I tried to count brake lights, traffic lights, yellow lights, red lights…

Eventually, we arrived.

The trip up to Director Piggot’s office was a blur. There was an elevator. Some hallways.

We didn’t wait long. Good. The chairs weren’t comfortable.

And then, we were let in.

I sat down as Dad and the Director exchanged pleasantries.

Took a breath.

“I’ll join,” I said, hoping I didn’t interrupt anyone. “If you protect my dad. And if I can go after Coil.”


	14. The Blood on the Wall

_Move._

I needed to move. Just a muscle. Just one. I had to… I had to do something. Count things. Say things. Whatever. I couldn’t remember. Or I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t know which…

Was I breathing? I suppose I was. Somewhere distant, there was a slow in and out. I tried to bring my attention to it like they’d said, but it remained far away, just beyond my reach.

I was being stupid. I just had to move, just a muscle, just one— but as my shoulder twitched, I knew one muscle would never be enough.

There wasn’t anything wrong. Was there? There wasn’t. I was just being stupid, silly, useless, unable to move even a muscle, just sitting here on the bed with my arms around the giant, silly teddy bear. Silly.

At least I was alone. I couldn’t stand for others to see me. Not like this. Not so pathetic, unable to even convince myself to do anything beyond look straight ahead. At what? I didn’t know. I saw it, but then, I didn’t. The wall of my bedroom, probably. It didn’t matter. It should have, but it didn’t.

I didn’t understand. I’d been doing all the right things. I’d been doing fine. Someone had said something or another, but I’d still been fine. And then I’d gotten home, and I couldn’t even remember what they had said, but then, I don’t know what happened…

“Taylor?” No. Please, just go. “It’s time for dinner.”

The door squeaked open. My head slowly turned to look at Dad. I needed to say something. I didn’t know what to say. I felt my mouth open somewhere, but nothing came out.

“Are you— what’s wrong?” he asked.

_I’m fine,_ I tried to say.

“I don’t understand,” I said, instead.

There wasn’t anything wrong. Was there? There wasn’t.

How long had it been? Shouldn’t dinner have been long ago? But I couldn’t tell. There was no clock on my wall. Not here, in this mockery of my bedroom. A bedroom with a bed into which you’d never tucked me. A bedroom in which we’d never played Harry Potter and cast Patronuses. In which we’d never flown on broomsticks and caught golden snitches. A bedroom whose ceiling had never seen the stain of orange juice.

I’d gotten everything I’d wanted. I could go after Coil; I only had to wait a few weeks. I could still patrol with New Wave; Dad had insisted. I could keep all my bugs, and keep making new ones; only Armsmaster would have to approve. And there wouldn’t be any Sophia.

They’d made me tell them everything. I’d told them about Tattletale, about Coil, and about the moles in the PRT.

And then Dad had told them about _me_. “Depression and anxiety,” he’d said. I’d have to see a therapist. I’d have to talk with multiple, until I found the ‘right’ one, they’d said. They had tried to make it sound so simple, so easy, as if I wouldn’t have to bare my soul to a stranger.

I—

My Dad was saying something. I tried to listen.

“What don’t you understand, Taylor?”

The bed had shifted. He must have sat down beside me. Yes. His arm was around my shoulder, now, hanging awkwardly.

“Why am I like this?” I asked. “Is it because of my powers? Did they say: ‘Why not fuck Taylor up while we’re here?’”

I knew he’d been wondering the same. I could see it on his face, now and then. I was sure of it.

It _had_ to be my powers, didn’t it? If it was, maybe something could fix it. Fix me. I needed to be fixed, didn’t I? That’s why I needed to see a therapist. They would probably put me on medication. Or were those psychiatrists?

I wasn’t like this before. Was I? I wasn’t. It had been different.

I’d had good reasons, before. I studied so hard because I’d had to, because it was the only way the school would listen, and you’d have wanted me to do well in school anyway, wouldn’t you have? I punched Sophia, but that had been justified, hadn’t it been? I had just wanted revenge for all she had done, and I’d gotten it. And it had been the same when I had tried to stand up to Emma. When I taunted her— I’d been homophobic, hadn’t I? But I’d been desp— no, not desperate. I’d been _tactical_.

And Dad… _Glad you’re feeling better,_ he had said, that first time I’d brought him breakfast in bed. But I’d been feeling fine, hadn’t I? Before all of this…

“I don’t understand,” I said, again.

“Should I call—”

“No,” I said.

Shouldn’t he?

* * *

Even a dozen feet up, I could see the glistening of the dew upon the too-green grass, little flecks of light sparkling up at me, twinkling and shifting as I flew. The brisk air felt refreshing to my lungs. I could feel its cold flow up my nostrils and down through my veins, and as I exhaled, I could feel heat rise up in its stead.

My breath shook slightly, echoes of whatever had happened to me last night. I tried to put it out of my mind. It was so easy, sometimes, to forget. Mostly, today, I felt good. I didn’t need to remember last night.

The guards around Arcadia’s courtyard gave me the signal, and I slipped off Witherwings’ back. The freefall was too short, but then, it always was.

I landed on the grass, and thought I could almost feel the dew dampen my sneakers. I checked my shoulder reflexively, but my backpack was there, just as it should be. Even if it hadn’t been, I could have had a beetle fetch it from home: my relay swarms blanketed most of the city, now. It took a bit of concentration to reach through them, but I was getting better.

“Taylor!”

I felt a smile cross my face. Before I could say anything, Vicky’s arms were squeezing me tight. I could barely see a thing through her hair.

“Did everything go okay? You didn’t call. You should call, you know,” she said. “We didn’t even know until Miss Militia told us. But she said you could patrol with us. It’ll be so great!”

“I already patrol with you,” I muttered, but I don’t think she heard me.

“Mom was really happy, too. She actually smiled, and not her normal lawyer smile, but a real smile. You know, the one she saves for special occasions. She likes patrolling with you. She even admits it. She says it’s because you can actually make a difference, Brute that you are. But _I_ think it’s because—”

I would _need_ that Brute ability soon if Vicky kept crushing me. Then again, I knew firsthand she could squeeze substantially harder.

Somewhere through the mess of Vicky’s hair I saw someone approach. I tensed slightly.

“Vicky, you saw her yesterday.” Oh! It was Amy. I felt my muscles relax again.

Finally, Vicky let me go. I shook my head. I was still smiling. I felt almost normal.

“Let me cast Protego first, next time,” I joked. “I think I bruised.”

I made a show of poking where she’d squeezed, and gave a theatrical wince.

“But she joined, Amy! She’s going to be—” Vicky looked around furtively. Her voice lowered. “A Ward.”

I rolled my eyes. As if anyone listening wouldn’t have been able to tell exactly what she’d been talking about.

“It’s not a secret, Vicky,” I said. “Not really.”

“Still, it _is_ rather big,” said Amy. “Congratulations?”

“Yeah,” I said, the smile I wore still mostly genuine. “Thanks. It’ll be interesting, I guess.”

“The Wards are alright, I suppose,” said Amy. “Gallant’s a busybody, though.”

“Gallant’s fine,” said Vicky.

I began walking to class, Vicky and Amy trailing behind me, Vicky prattling on about Gallant and the Wards, Amy interjecting with snide comments here and there. I listened, mostly, as I enjoyed the natural light streaming in through Arcadia’s many high windows.

I greeted some of the other students as we passed. Most seemed to have forgotten I was Hermione. Or perhaps they were being polite. Then again, maybe they just didn’t care. They were used to superhero classmates. I wasn’t so different, now that my novelty had passed.

Somehow, Vicky was now talking about falafel. I wasn’t sure when I’d lost track of the conversation. Another girl shared an amused grin with me as she walked by. Erika, I think. Or Emily. I couldn’t remember. I’d chatted with her a couple times at lunch. It was surprising how many names I almost knew, though. Across the hall was Ronald. Or Robert. I think I just thought ‘Ronald’ because of Harry Potter. Plus, he had red hair.

Over to the right, texting on her phone, was James. I knew _her_ name. Refused to go by Jamie. She had a penchant for men’s formalwear, and wore suits most days of the week, rendering her out-of-place amongst the crowds of jeans-sporting students. Apparently she’d even gone as James Bond last halloween. I’d thought maybe she was a guy, or non-binary, but it seemed she was just a girl named James.

“Oh, just ask her out already,” Amy whispered in my ear.

“Shut up,” I muttered.

Chemistry, first. Amy’s favorite, not that she’d admit it. I wish I liked it half as much, but it reminded me of when I had tried to cram my head full with knowledge of electron orbitals and all sorts of other things. Still, it wasn’t _bad_ , really.

Another class, then lunch, then a couple more. And then, finally, it was time.

One last patrol before papers were signed. I’d still be patrolling with New Wave as a Ward, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow things would be different.

I exchanged a glance with Vicky and Amy as we entered Arcadia’s courtyard once more. What was the feeling? The same one I would feel when I remembered you reading me stories at night, or the two of us out shopping for groceries, or… _Bittersweet,_ perhaps.

Amy climbed onto Atlas, and I perched myself on Witherwings. We flew up into the sky, Vicky shooting up ahead.

It wasn’t freefall, but today, I was enchanted nonetheless.

* * *

_Move._

I needed to move, even a muscle, even just one, but I didn’t know how, I was stuck, frozen, paralyzed, but I had to do something—

Was I breathing? I could feel it, I could feel it too much, too quickly, in and out and in and out and— I tried to slow it, but I couldn’t grasp it, the air seemed to force its way into me—

How couldn’t I move? How could I be doing this again? How could I be doing this _now?_

Everything was wrong. I had to— I didn’t even have my bear. It was off in my bedroom, feet away that might as well have been worlds, and why was I worrying about the fucking bear, I—

I was alone. Why was I alone? Why couldn’t I—

I didn’t understand. I’d done all the right things. I’d gone to the PRT. I shouldn’t have told them. Shouldn’t I have? I shouldn’t. But I’d told them everything. They’d agreed to protect Dad, and to so much more besides. But I could have kept silent, could have gone alone, but I hadn’t, and still, _this_ —

Still here. Still unable to convince myself to do anything beyond look straight ahead.

Blood.

Hadn’t it been what had gotten me here in the first place? Blood in the locker. Blood on the wand. It all came back to blood, and now, the blood was on the kitchen wall, its every detail burning into me.

It was spread in a pattern, its edges crisp and sharp, as if painted through a stencil. A symbol. One I’d seen sprayed across too many buildings in Brockton Bay. Two eights, intertwined. The Nazis.

And Dad was missing.

_Move._ I had to _move._

I jerked my shoulder away. Then my eyes.

Stumbled through the apartment. Out of Dad’s room. Through the kitchen, the remains of Dad’s dinner in the sink. I’d eaten out, with the Dallons. I hadn’t gotten back until after ten.

Over to the door. I’d found it closed, when I’d finally deigned arrive home. Locked, even. Why had they bothered?

Down the hall. I didn’t know if I was running or—

Elevator. Glass doors. Tried to look normal for the guards, but how _couldn’t_ they see the terror on my face? They said nothing.

Witherwings.

Sky.

* * *

The door was waiting for me unlocked, when I arrived. I hadn’t been sure they had understood. I still wasn’t good at speaking through my bugs. I should have practiced more.

I closed the door behind me.

They were waiting for me. Mark in his chair. Carol, Amy, and Vicky on the couch.

Concern marred all their faces. It had bothered me, once. But I must have looked a mess. Wet with tears. My breathing still ragged.

“Coil took Dad. I’m— I’m not handling it well. I need your help.”


	15. Coil and Trouble

Useless. On its own, his power was next to useless.

He could hold his timelines for a day. Two. Three. He’d not found a limit. But the longer he held them, the less of a point there was. He might as well live two lives. Didn’t he live two lives, already? One as Thomas Calvert, PRT consultant. One as Coil, supervillain on the cusp of owning the city.

There were recreational uses, of course. In one timeline he could continue working, while in the other, he could take a walk or watch a movie. Not that he did such things. He preferred instead to use his power as an outlet for his more sadistic tendencies. He had tried to use those same tendencies for something greater than recreation, but torture was not as effective an interrogation technique as he would have hoped.

There was no point in holding open a timeline for more than a day or two. But a day or two was never enough. He could test his decisions, but could he ever really know their ramifications? And what decisions worth testing could be tested in a day?

Useless. But then again… without it, he wouldn’t have been able to obtain his pet. _Her_ power was anything but useless.

* * *

It was a small question to ask. Short-term, even. But his power complemented his pet’s so nicely that it didn’t hurt to ask, not even in his most paranoid mind, not if he dropped the timeline after he’d done so.

“Do you remember Taylor Hebert, pet?” he asked. He had to check, before he could ask his question. Not on his pet’s memory of Miss Hebert: she would not have forgotten. Rather, he had to check on her power.

The first day he’d had Dinah, he asked her about Hermione. She’d had no difficulty answering that the girl posed no threat to him. The second time he’d inquired, only a day later, had gone differently. He would have dropped the timeline had Bakuda not killed the Undersiders in the other. Instead, he had to live without questions for the better part of a day.

Hermione was a threat. He’d already known as much: she was a Trump. A power copier. But she was more than that. She trumped his pet. Made her power useless. That could not be allowed.

He’d decided to solve one problem with another. He’d had his Tattletale send Hermione after Bakuda. Hermione hadn’t died. He would have dropped the timeline, were Bakuda not just as dangerous a threat.

“Yes,” said Dinah. “Taylor’s there, today.”

“Good,” said Coil. “The chance that she becomes a Ward in the next week?”

“Seventy eight point three percent chance Taylor Hebert becomes a Ward in the next week.”

There was potential. In any case, if she became a Ward, it might open new avenues through which to kill her. And even if not, it would be easier to keep himself out of her firing line, especially if the PRT’s negotiations with the Heberts went favorably.

He would have to call Tattletale. There was enough public about Hermione. She had to be able to dig up something the PRT could use.

* * *

He’d told her she had an hour. He’d grown concerned when three had passed. By the time he’d realized his Tattletale had disappeared it was already morning, and the negotiations had already taken place.

There was no timeline to drop. He’d last split just after asking Dinah his usual morning questions. In one, his mercenaries were already investigating Tattletale’s disappearance. In the other, he sat at his desk—the safe one, secure in his base, complete with secret emergency escape route.

A few taps on his keyboard should have told him the result of the Heberts’ meeting with the Director. But when he tried, all he got was an error. ‘Access Denied.’ Tattletale must have told Hermione. How much had she said? He had no way of knowing. He wasn’t even sure how much Tattletale knew.

A lick of fear sparked inside him. He dropped the timeline investigating her disappearance. No sense leaving soldiers off-base. No sense leaving both of himself on-base, either.

Split. In one timeline, he left to ensconce himself in one of his homes. In the other, he strode from his office and into the neighboring room.

“Taylor Hebert,” he said.

“Candy.”

He took a steadying breath. His pet could be temperamental. Tried to speak evenly.

“You just had some last night, pet. But if you’re good, I’ll see if Mr. Pitter can’t give you something to tide you over,” he said. “Now: Taylor Hebert.”

“Here,” she said.

“Good. Chance she attacks in next day, week, and month,” he said.

“One point five percent chance she attacks in next day. Three point four percent in next week. Seventy two percent in next month.”

Seventy two?

It did not make sense. Just yesterday, Dinah had told him there was only a six percent chance of attack during the month. What could have changed so dramatically? Was an attack _exactly_ one month away?

Or… He’d acted based upon a number she’d told him. _Seventy eight point three percent chance Taylor Hebert becomes a Ward in the next week._

He’d known his pet’s predictions couldn’t include further questions he’d ask of her and the decisions he’d make based upon them. Powers were, invariably, eventually logical, and such endless recursion had too many potential impossibilities.

But the only thing he’d done with the question had been… Tattletale. He’d asked her to investigate Hermione. Had something about the request spooked her? Made her decide to spill his secrets?

Again, the fear ate at him. It was louder, now. There were questions much more urgent than how he got here.

“Chance I die or am captured if she does attack?” he asked.

“Forty two point three percent chance you die,” she said. “Fifty point nine percent chance you are captured. Candy, now?”

“In a moment, pet,” he said absently. His many plans within plans suddenly seemed unimportant.

“Now,” she said.

With a grunt of annoyance, he collapsed the timeline. One self continued on his way to a safe house. The other turned around and headed back into his base, back to his office, back to the room just off it, back to his Dinah.

He needed a way to distract Hermione. But a distraction wouldn’t work, would it? She wouldn’t attack for another month, anyway. He needed something more permanent. And it needed to be quick: her power seemed to increase with every report he read.

“Chance she dies tomorrow if she fights Empire Eighty-Eight’s capes?”

Many of their lesser capes had been apprehended. The rest had formed their own factions, and were spending nearly as much time fighting each other as anyone else. He’d already arranged for them all to be in the same place at the same time tomorrow, in the early hours of the morning. If Hermione arrived…

“Who?” asked his pet.

He took a moment to better formulate the question. It was too easy to be too specific or too vague.

_Chance she dies tomorrow if she fights Kaiser, Hookwolf, Purity, Night, and Fog?_ But what if she _didn’t_ end up fighting them?

_Chance she dies tomorrow if she fights in any fight Kaiser does?_ But what if she missed one? The question assumed she wouldn’t, but reality might not be so forgiving.

No. He needed a plan. How would he send her after Empire Eighty-Eight in the first place?

“Taylor Hebert. Chance she dies tomorrow if she goes out hunting Empire Eighty-Eight tonight.”

If Hermione joined the battle, he had no doubt the former Empire capes would band together to attack her.

“Forty three percent chance she dies.”

Not as high as he hoped. But it was a number he could work with. He pulled out his phone. Typed in a search. Opened an image.

“Chance she dies tomorrow if I have her father abducted and this symbol left behind in blood?”

“Thirty eight percent,” she said.

The number was different. There must be a small chance she’d realize he was behind it. But if he split the timeline, he could wait and see which path she took. If she took the bait, he could collapse it and use his timelines to raise his chance of killing her.

“And if I had my soldiers attack with all their firepower during any major battle she fights?” he asked.

“Ninety three point two five nine percent chance she dies.”

She began asking for her candy. It was still early. But he was in a good mood.

* * *

She took the bait.

With a victorious smirking grin no one could see, Coil split the timeline and gave the order.

His soldiers attacked. Rocket launchers. Even if she could survive, her wand wouldn’t. And without it, she might as well not have any power at all.

“Is she down? Can you confirm the target is down?”

“Vision is obscured,” said a voice through the crackle of encrypted radio. Coil could see that much for himself via the video feed.

“Target down,” the voice continued. “Have visual on what’s left of the wand. Splinters. Sending in team to confirm kill.”

Coil sat back in his seat. She might just—

Gunfire. Not from over the radio. From in the base. Then: alarms.

He split timelines reflexively. One of him ducked beneath his desk and pressed the button cleverly hidden round the back. The wall gave way, revealing a passage. He resealed it behind him as he crawled through.

He didn’t understand. His pet had said… his pet had said Hermione would die today.

But she hadn’t said he wouldn’t be attacked. Hadn’t even said he wouldn’t die. The him in his office leapt from his desk and rushed to her room.

“Chance I die today,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Ninety three point two five nine percent chance you die,” she said. The number sounded familiar. Hadn’t it been—

“Why is it the same?” his pet asked. “It’s all the same, everyone is the same…”

The him in the passageway crawled faster. Then his hand hit something. He looked up. He couldn’t make out anything through the dark. His hand reached for his phone—

And then the other him, the him in Dinah’s room, heard his alarms joined by something more chilling still.

_Sirens_.

And Coil realized something more, as the him in the passageway finally found his phone, finally turned on the flashlight, finally looked up into the face of what could only be a massive beetle.

His pet had said Hermione would almost certainly die today.

She had not said _when,_ or _by what._

Useless.


	16. Fire Burn

Still breathing. If it was even him. How could I _not_ know if it was him? How couldn’t I tell my own dad from—

I dodged under a swipe from Hookwolf. I could see Fog rolling in round the corner of an alley ahead. I couldn’t see Night. At least Glory Girl was distracting Kaiser and Purity.

“Protego,” I cast again, just in case, trying not to think about how unsure I was that the man miles away, beneath what seemed to be Coil’s base, was even Dad; how unsure I was of his condition; how unsure I was of anything at all.

I couldn’t be sure. _But it feels like him,_ I tried to remind myself. Just because I couldn’t see properly through bug eyes didn’t mean I couldn’t recognize my own father, and just because my sense of touch was all echoey and strange through the dozens relay bugs separating us didn’t mean I couldn’t still feel him breathing in and out, in and—

Something slammed me face-first into a brick wall. Why all the brick buildings? Were they just common in the Docks?

Not the point. The ‘points’ were busy punching through my forcefield. At least my costume could keep at bay the claws and pincers and who knew what else.

I tried to kick Night, tried to shove her off of me, but I could barely move at all. The air was thick and I couldn’t breathe and my wand was pinned beneath me and I couldn’t— No! A flash of fury slammed through me, and I felt myself release an explosion of fire, my scales rattling angrily beneath my robes.

As soon as the explosion knocked Night away, I spun around. Immediately, she backed up further. I thought I saw her hand reaching for something on her belt, but it was hard to tell: it was barely dawn, and the streetlights were out, half destroyed in the throes of battle, the other half already broken long before we arrived.

I had my beetles dive at her, at least those I had on hand. A couple of tacklers and a spitter. Most the rest were with New Wave near Coil’s base, waiting… I risked a quick glance at my watch; the light behind its screen worked, at least. Glory Girl and I had barely been battling five minutes yet. Was it enough time for news of the fight to get back to Coil? I couldn’t stand being here fighting Naizs while he still had Dad.

_Forget Lady Photon’s plan,_ I wanted to say. I itched to hop on Witherwings and fly to the rescue, wand blazing. But Lady Photon wasn’t wrong: we _weren’t_ sure what Coil might do to Dad if he realized I hadn’t been fooled, and we didn’t want to find o—

Bang! A flash of light, and then I couldn’t see anything.

This time, Night knocked me off my feet. Again, a blast of flame threw her back. My undersuit felt tight enough I could barely breathe. I pulled at it, only to find it still stretchy, even slightly loose, though not as loose as it had been when I’d put it on. Great. It wasn’t my suit suffocating me as I grew and it became too small. It was just me. My head. The opponent I had the fewest tools with which to fight.

Fine. Night wanted to play? I closed my eyes and dared her.

But she wasn’t the only one to charge: my bugs felt Hookwolf move with her, his face carefully averted. As they each came into arm’s reach, I snapped my eyes open, one shoulder already moving, the other fist already flying.

I barely registered the shattering of Hookwolf’s blade as my shoulder crashed into it. Instead, my focus was on Night as my fist met her stomach.

She folded. She flew.

My heart caught. Had I killed her? I hadn’t meant to, I’d only meant— But I blinked, and she was fine again. A problem in its own right, but at least she wasn’t dead.

Before I could feel relief at not having killed again, shards of metal dug into my side. Kaiser. Where was Glory Girl? Hadn’t she been fighting him? Was she alright?

I tried to twist away, but sharp metal teeth were already grinding into my other side, leaving me pinned between Kaiser and Hookwolf. I pulled. Tried to move my arm, tried to jiggle the wand, tried to think of a spell, but each jerk was met with more blades. Again, I felt myself struggling to breathe, and I knew it wasn’t real, but if I used Lung’s fire again then maybe I’d grow and then it _would_ be real, and Glory Girl was busy with Night and I could see Fog getting closer and—

A beam of light slammed down from the sky. _Purity._ I stumbled sideways into the space where Hookwolf had been. Had Purity missed? Or was she trying to help me?

A moment later, Glory Girl rammed Kaiser. But where was Night, then? My eyes scanned the street. There! My bugs could feel her transform as she rounded the corner of an alley. She moved so quickly… I needed something strong—

“Stupefy!” I yelled, but by the time the monstrous form began to emerge from my wand, Night was already appearing from the alley behind me. I turned to meet her, only to be met with another flash-bang.

I barely managed to close my eyes in time. She rammed me head-on, and somewhere beneath the unearthly shifting and clicking and thrashing of whatever she was composed of, I heard it.

Snap.

No. No, she can’t have—

I opened my eyes, but still couldn’t see. Was it because of the streetlights, or because the flash-bang, or because I could barely think? I tried to yell, to scream. My hands groped uselessly. A blast of fire left me, and left me again. How? How did I still have power? Had I not heard what I thought I heard?

Again, the flames forced Night back. I pulled myself to my knees. Pawed at the ground. Tried to find it, tried to find—

And then I saw it.

Just laying there. There, at my feet.

The other half of my wand.

My knees gave beneath me as my free hand made to reach for it, my other hand still holding its other half.

The wand was everything, wasn’t it? But it couldn’t be. There was no _time_ for it to be. I had to do my part, wand or no wand. Dad was still beneath Coil’s base. Still waiting for New Wave to rescue him. They had to keep him safe, as I could not. I hadn’t even been able to protect a piece of wood. You’d given it to me, and I’d let it get broken, just as I had the flute before it, and—

I felt something.

Something tiny, just coming into existence. Just there, on the tip of the wand. Not the part I held. The part still on the ground. The part for which I was still reaching.

And then I felt that same odd sensation again. Only this time, it wasn’t from the shard of wand on the ground. Instead, it was from the piece in my hand.

A bug, crawling along its jagged, broken tip.

Night had broken the wand in two. And now I had two wands.

“Stupefy!” I yelled, half a wand in each hand.

From each shot a giant spider, then another, and another. Immediately they scuttled off. Night was fighting with Glory Girl. She used another flash-bang—how many did she even have?—but I didn’t care. I didn’t need my eyes, this time.

There was only the three of us. Everyone else was preoccupied. Hookwolf with Purity, Kaiser with Fog, and all of them with gunfire coming from somewhere down the street. Had Coil finally learned of our battle?

Glory Girl shot away from Night’s claws, and immediately my spiders attacked. They did not need to get close. Instead, they shot their silk from a distance. I hadn’t realized spiders could do that. Perhaps not all spiders could. These seemed to have specialized silk ducts just for it. I wondered if they could be combined with venom— but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

Night was down.

Somewhere to the east I could feel Fog’s human form impaled on a dozen blades, which left only—

_Loud._

Louder than the flash-bang. Louder than anything.

Heat. Hotter than Lung’s fire. It scorched everything.

A slam. Another. Wall, floor—

I felt my back hit the ceiling. Ceiling? Weren’t we outside? I moved my head and my head moved a thousand times.

I lifted my hands and they screamed at me. So loud, so noisy. A moment later, I realized the noise was pain.

My eyes opened. When had they closed? There were bright and dark spots everywhere.

I managed to lift my hands. Moved them dazedly before my eyes. They moved as darker blobs, shifting and twisting. Out-of-focus, I thought for a moment, but no— I could make out a sharp edge, here and there, in fleeting moments.

Shouting, somewhere. “Myown Eedow! Myonee dow! Hermione down! Coil’s men—”

Down? I thought I was on the ceiling. No, no, it was the ground. Must be my ears. I tried to yawn to pop them, but my jaw ached, and then my ears did, and then everything did.

I tried to pull myself into a sitting position, but my hands screamed at me as I clawed at the ground. What had they hit me with?

“We’re going in,” I heard Mrs. Dallon’s voice in my ear. “Get her out of there. Now.”

Going in? _Dad._

I felt my heartbeat quicken. I ignored my screaming hands and pulled myself to my feet with a grunt. My vision only swam for a moment with the suddenness of my movement.

A dozen mercenaries were closing in on me, each raising their guns. My mind reached for Witherwings—

“Hermione! I’ve got you, it’s alright—“

I let Vicky pull me into the air. She zig-zagged to avoid volleys of bullets being shot at us from below. “Witherwings,” I said.

My body felt uncomfortably warm. I could feel sweat mixing with blood on my skin.

“The shrapnel tore straight through your costume,” said Vicky. “Right into the scales. They must have hit you with rocket launchers or something. I don’t think it got to anything delicate, but we’ll need Amy—”

“Witherwings,” I repeated.

“Can you even fly him—”

“Yes,” I said, as Witherwings flew to a hover beside us. Vicky gingerly placed me upon him. For once, I didn’t sit side-saddle. Instead, I let myself grab the little nubs on his head, doing my best to ignore the many sharp needles it seemed to send through my tattered hands.

“Wand?” I asked.

Vicky said nothing.

“Vicky?” I asked. “My wand… is it?”

“Splinters,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Only splinters. I couldn’t grab them. I’m sorry, Taylor.”

Splinters. Nothing left. Again, I’d failed to protect it.

It didn’t matter. Right now, Dad needed—

_Loud._ Not pain, this time, but an actual noise.

Sirens.

Like for an air raid. Only, these sirens weren’t ever used for air raids, were they? They were used for _Endbringers._

I felt a pang of fear tighten my chest, and a small part of me took comfort in the knowledge that this time, at least, the fear was entirely justified.

“Fuck,” I heard Vicky mutter. I must have placed a bug on her out of habit.

_Dad._

I turned Witherwings and pushed him as fast as I could. It wasn’t fast enough. We were minutes from Coil’s base, and who knew how far away the Endbringer was, how much warning we had—

And then I felt a drop of rain.

Leviathan. It had to be him. And he could not be far.

My head twitched as a burst of static echoed through my ear.

“—to shelter—” I heard Mrs. Dallon’s voice say, but it was breaking up. The connection must have deteriorated. “—found Danny—”

No. The connection was fine. The problem was the cacophony of sounds on the other end. Gunfire, shouts, screams.

“—a vault. Empty. We can look later— need to get to the Protectorate,” said Lady Photon’s voice, somewhere through it all.

“Eidolon’s here, with Alcott,” said Laserdream, her voice clearer. There must have been less noise, wherever she was. “How did _he_ get here?”

“Eidolon, Laserdream?” asked Lady Photon. “Where are you?”

“I’m where I’m supposed to be,” said Laserdream, a touch defensively.

“Northeast, upper level?”

“Yep.”

Lady Photon inhaled sharply.

“I see him too,” she said. “But there’s something wrong—”

“—another Alcott, here, but her face is—” “—and another Eidolon—” “—another Dinah—”

“There’s something else, down here,” said Lady Photon. “It’s big, like—”

An inhuman screech, paired with a howling yell I didn’t recognize, and then, a moment later, one I did.

And then static.

I felt my breathing tighten again. I didn’t even know how afraid I ought to be.

Rain streaked along my shredded robes and my unprotected skin beneath it. The hard surface of Witherwings was becoming slick, but at least my hands were not yet growing cold. I tried to urge him faster, but his wings couldn’t beat any harder. If I still had my wand, I could fly like Vicky. I wanted to tell her to go on ahead, but—

“Photon? Sarah?” asked Mrs. Dallon.

Static, again.

“Mom?” asked Vicky.

“I’m outside. Mr. Hebert’s with Amy, but…” she began. “Eidolon and Miss Alcott… they’re out here, as well. Several of them. But not really them. Copies. Poor ones, but they have powers. And—”

We were only a minute away. I could see the building under which Coil’s lair was buried. The rain ran across my glasses, but I couldn’t think on it. Dad was nearby. I thought I could feel him and Amy across the street, running for cover. Just one more building…

“Mom?” called Vicky, before shooting off.

Without flight, I couldn’t drop off Witherwings. Instead, I had to bring him into a dive. The sight of a half-dozen Eidolons and Dinahs stopped me short.

And then a slam of _something_ from one of the Eidolons crushed Witherwings into a bloody pulp.

I fell.

* * *

I pulled my eyes open. Stumbled to my feet. My hands were yelling at me again with burning surges of pain. I tried to shove it to the side.

Gave my head a shake. Bad idea. Everything span.

I was surrounded by Dinahs, all seated in the middle of the downtown intersection, forming a strange sort of semicircle around me. There were a dozen of them, now. They were each wrong, each in different ways, some missing a limb, some having one too many, some with flesh wrong and angry.

But they were identical in their expressions, all looking up at me, all moving their heads to tilt oddly to the side, not quite in unison, but instead in a sort of wave, starting on the right, moving to the left.

“He told her it’s your fault, you know,” said the Dinahs, one then the next.

Behind them, somewhere in the distance, something was moving. Something big, framed between the rows of skyscrapers. A human body jutting out from a hodgepodge of other parts. Where had the Eidolons gone?

“She wants you dead, Hermione. Ninety three point two percent chance she gets what she wants,” said the Dinahs, her voice almost sing-song, a mockery of a ten year old.

I felt a shiver go down my spine. It was not from the rain. I wasn’t even cold. Why wasn’t I cold? I reached for my bugs. Tried to search for Dad. Hadn’t he and Amy been nearby? And where was Mrs. Dallon?

I heard crashing sounds in the distance. Explosions, crumbling cement, and—

The monster behind the Dinahs stilled. Turned her head. Not to the sounds. To me.

She said nothing. Only snarled. Reared back, as if ready to charge—

“Ninety three point two percent chance you make the wrong choice,” said Dinahs in an echoey wave. “You’ll kill us all, Hermione. We won’t survive the day. Ninety three point two percent chance.”

The creature behind them, whatever it was, charged at me. I scrambled for my bugs, tried to find my beetles, but there were so few— where had they all gone?

My eyes drifted down to where I could hear the gnashing of teeth and the clicking of— Oh. Legs. Beetle legs, tangled within the mess of limbs and flesh that was the creature. The clicking of their feet was growing louder and—

“Ninety three point two percent chance everything dies today,” said the Dinahs. “The end of all things. Extinction. Is that what you want, Hermione?”

I didn’t understand. _Extinction_? And what choice was I going to make? What choice _could_ I make?

The snarl on the monster’s face was mixed with a demented smile and a touch of panic. Or maybe the panic was just me. Was _this_ the Endbringer? I’d thought the rain had meant Leviathan, but—

It was hard to breathe, again, and my body was growing warm, and I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t—

No wand.

No bugs.

No anything.

I was going to die. Wasn’t I? I’d thought so before, but I’d never been so certain as I was now. And I didn’t understand.

The Dinahs spoke of a choice, but the monster was getting closer, and I didn’t see what choice I could possibly have. In a moment, she’d break through the Dinahs, and then—

“Is that what you want, Hermione? The world to end?”

The world? I didn’t—

And then, I saw it. Behind the monster, something more terrifying than even she.

_Leviathan._ Scaly and green, and nearly as tall as the building he was rounding. A dozen Eidolons danced around his head, each sending blasts of energy that left behind dark scorch marks.

I couldn’t breathe, but soon, it wouldn’t matter. I was shaking, my body was too warm, and my hands were burning—

Burning.

I shouldn’t be burning. I should be freezing.

My hands— _Splinters._ There were _splinters_ of my wand in my hands, dozens of them. I’d thought I was powerless, but _this…_

Only seconds left—the charging monster was so big, now—but I had a chance. My hands weren’t burning. They were itching, dying to release deadly fire—

The monster tossed the Dinahs away. I raised my hands, and—

“Fiendfyre!”

I didn’t know the incantation. It didn’t matter.

From my hands burst a swarm of insects the size of horses. I could feel them as they sprung from nothingness and shot from my hands, just as if they were any other bug. But they were not any other bug. They were _flame._

I could feel my suit tightening as the creature shrieked a dozen times over, its many heads shrinking away, its human one shouting something I couldn’t make out.

She tried to press forward, but the fiery forms of beetles and dragonflies and hornets and I didn’t know what else melted away the conglomeration of flesh and body parts, leaving a revolting smell in its wake.

And then I saw a hand. A proper, human one. There were bodies in there. Maybe still alive. I tried not to burn them, but I could barely tell where they were. Was this the choice of which the Dinahs had spoken?

A body tumbled from the monster’s folds of twisted flesh. Dying, if not yet dead. _Eidolon._ I’d killed Eidolon, I’d— I couldn’t—

I tried to breathe, but my chest refused to move. I needed to—

And then my suit tore away, and I realized that this time, my inability to breathe had _not_ been from panic.

I kept growing larger and larger; thick, opaque, fiery insects swirled about me to preserve my modesty. Was I really worried about modesty, right now? Whatever, they’d work as armor, too.

A wall of water slammed into me, turning to steam as it hit. The heat of it only sped my growth and fed my flame.

Leviathan. I’d forgotten. How had I forgotten? Was _he_ what Dinah had meant? I’d choose monster over Endbringer, and we’d all die?

My feet pushed me off the ground, water rushing beneath me as I took to the sky. My bugs could feel the wave eating at the foundations of the skyscrapers; would it rot them away? What would be left of the city?

Scales, forcefield, flight, even wings… it was all here. More power than Lung had possessed when he’d fought Leviathan. But I was no fool: no matter how well I fought, there’d be precious little left of the city when I was done.

I reached out for my bugs. Tried to feel Dad, one last time. He’d die, wouldn’t he? Or had the wave already claimed him? I felt myself cry an angry, bitter sob. I’d barely recovered from losing _you_. Hadn’t recovered. I still talked with you in my head, still pretended you were alive— did everyone do that? Did it even matter, here, at the end of all things?

A wave of my hand sent a furious roar of fire at Leviathan, and behind it followed a wave of immaterial bugs. I was beyond spells, now.

The fire flowed across Leviathan, shedding a layer of his skin. The bugs penetrated into him and rematerialized, geysers of liquified bug bursting from him in their wake.

He crouched as if to leap, and a dozen more watery copies rose around him, and—

Leviathan abruptly stopped.

He looked curiously at the remains of the dying monster upon the ground, his eyes not quite meeting it.

The water pulled away as if to give him a closer look. Not away from the monster. Away from Eidolon’s body.

And then, Leviathan ran, the wave receding with him.

I didn’t understand. I allowed myself to sink back to the ground. It was no longer wet. My bugs searched, and—

The monster was dead. Leviathan was gone. And Dad was _alive_.

And the city was still standing. No extinction. Had the Dinahs been lying?

Or was something still yet to come?

Would everything still end?

Would Dad still—

No.

He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it.

I’d do anything to stop it. _Anything._ Anything to keep Dad alive. I’d burn the world myself if I had to, if only to keep him—

Bang!

Flame swirled around me as a shockwave hit. A glowing, golden man dropped from the sky. His feet hit the ground without a sound.

_Scion._

His eyes bored into me.

And then he spoke. Why did he speak? Why to me?

“ _Extinction_.”


	17. Cauldron Bubble

He needed— but he needed— but didn’t he see? He needed to run! He needed to run right now! It was important that he run! It was vital.

Nudge. Another nudge. Didn’t he understand? He needed to run. She needed to run with him. It would only take a moment. Okay, maybe ten minutes. Okay, maybe an hour. Or maybe they could run forever, he and she. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

She nudged him again. He looked up from his tablet. Smiled. Gave his head a slow shake. He’d never get the water out of his hair like that. Not that his hair had water in it. She didn’t really understand why he shook his head, or why he did it so slowly. She liked that he smiled.

He reached out his hand. He scratched behind her ear. She liked when her David did that, too.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. She gave a little snort. Nudged him again. He didn’t give her ear a scratch this time. Did he not like her, anymore?

Oh! Her David stood up. Were they going for a run, at last?

“Door, please,” he said.

Even better! They’d see Tessie and Becky. She loved Tessie and Becky.

An opening appeared. She could see tables and chairs through it. It was like magic! She went first. Had to make sure it was safe for her David! Magic couldn’t be trusted, after all. And Tessie always had treats.

She gave a little bark as she ran into the room. Okay, maybe a couple barks. Fine, maybe it was three or four. It was exciting! She ran in a circle, and a circle again!

Tessie! Would they play fetch with Tessie’s fedora, today?

“Sit!” said Tessie. Oh! Oh! She knew how to sit! She sat.

“Good girl,” said Tessie, handing over the delicious morsel. “Good Fidolon!”

“Not her name,” growled her David. He seemed grumpy. Why was he grumpy? Tessie was here. Tessie had treats. What could be wrong with Tessie?

“Better than ‘Fluffy,’” said Becky.

Oh! Becky said her name! Fluffy waggled her way over. She leaned into Becky’s hand as Becky rubbed her head. Becky wasn’t as nice as Tessie. But she was still nice, sometimes.

“She’s off the path again, isn’t she?” her David said. Fluffy wasn’t sure what it meant. She only knew a few words. It was probably important. Tessie had mentioned a ‘path to treats’ once. Fluffy knew treats!

Why did Becky stop petting her? She licked Becky’s hand. Did Becky not like her anymore? Well, if no one wanted to pet her, she’d—

Oh! Tessie snapped her fingers! Fluffy wormed her way through the chair legs. Sat beside Tessie. Tessie began to scratch the top of her head.

Oh, Tessie was just so wonderful. Weird, too. Always called Fluffy ‘Fidolon.’ Fluffy didn’t know what she meant. But Tessie was still wonderful. The head scratches felt so good…

Fluffy let her eyes close. Her mouth drop open. Her tongue roll out.

“—still don’t see why she’s important.” Her David was speaking again. “Capes used to disappear from your ‘path’ all the time.”

“They haven’t since January,” said Tessie. She sounded upset. She smelled a little afraid. Why was she afraid? She had Fluffy here to protect her!

“Since January it’s only been Hermione,” Tessie continued. “She disappears for hours at a time. Everyone else only used to disappear for a minute or two here and there, pretty much just before their powers had temporary increases. Scion looking in on them, giving approval or something. Not ‘all the time,’ David, and it made _sense,_ just a bit, and this _doesn’t_.”

“Someone’s just upset their power doesn’t work,” said David. “Join the club.”

Why was everyone upset, today? Fluffy licked Tessie’s hand. Tessie needed the licks more than Fluffy needed the pets.

“Coil has taken her father,” said Becky. “The PRT thinks it is Empire Eighty-Eight. Hermione likely does, as well, unless she’s gotten ahold of some Thinker blood. We know enough to intervene, this time.”

Tessie began scratching behind Fluffy’s ear, again. Fluffy’s eyes half-closed. But the scratches weren’t normal. There was something different about them. Something wrong.

“You really think she’s important?” asked David.

“Yes,” said Becky. “She can use multiple powers simultaneously. She’s not shown a limit. She may be exactly what we need.”

Fluffy smelled a somberness in the air. Her David felt sad. Sad! That’s how the scratches were. Tessie and David were sad.

“You’re right,” he said. “But Contessa shouldn’t—”

“No,” said Becky. “She shouldn’t go anywhere near where Hermione might be.”

Tessie ruffled Fluffy’s fur. It always irritated Fluffy. But she didn’t protest, this time. It if made Tessie happy, it was good.

“I’ll go,” said her David. “Door.”

Fluffy smelled home. The weird room where her David would always dress funny. Were they leaving, already? David stepped through the opening. Then the opening closed.

He left her! She looked up at Tessie. Did her David not love her anymore? Was she going to have to stay with Tessie, now? She liked Tessie, but Tessie wasn’t David. She wanted David!

She whimpered.

“Shh, it’s alright, Fidolon,” said Tessie. “He’ll be back soon.”

Fluffy didn’t know what the words meant. But she knew they meant everything would be okay.

* * *

_The following has been translated from the internal thoughts of the Entity humans of Earth Bet refer to as Scion._

He’d let his Queen Administrator go. _He?_ Was he a he? He felt so. If he didn’t, his simulated human mind did. What was the difference, anymore?

He’d let the shard go. He hadn’t realized how important it had become to him. Or maybe he had. Maybe he’d not cared. Either way, he’d let it go. Perhaps that’s what he ought to do with the rest of himself. Let it all go…

_Unwilling._ He was unwilling. Was his unwillingness to end himself his own? Or was it his humanity’s?

His Queen Administrator’s host was human, and she was like him. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Unattached to being, but unwilling to make herself stop.

She’d been a decent choice for his Queen Administrator, but that had been an accident. He was supposed to choose hosts by potential for conflict. Half the time lately, he did so out of… he did not know the term. She’d been one of those picks. She’d seemed… familiar.

_Failure,_ he’d thought, when she’d almost died the first time. She’d barely done anything with her shard. But again she’d seemed so familiar, and so, he’d let Queen Administrator drop some of its restrictions. Perhaps he’d let it drop too many. He hadn’t been paying all that much attention to what it wanted. Only the familiarity of what its host was experiencing. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all did.

_Foolishness_ , he’d thought. She would die anyway. At least he’d be able to reclaim his Queen Administrator, if he timed things right.

But she hadn’t died. And she still had his Queen Administrator.

Shards were needy. Always wanting one restriction or another lifted, if only temporarily. His Queen Administrator had let him do that. Had let him connect to all his shards. To see through them. To adjust them. Administration was its role, after all.

He could still see through the minds of his shards’ hosts, of course, even without Queen Administrator. But before, it had been effortless, as everything had been. Now, it was always an effort. Always distracting.

And he had a favorite distraction.

_Familiar._ She was familiar.

He’d once been willing to do anything to stop extinction. The end of all things. Trillions of cycles away, and still approaching far too quickly. With enough data, he could stop it. Or, at least, his partner would have been able to.

They’d burnt worlds. Unimportant, next to immortality. But for all their attempts to go on forever, his partner had still ended. Had he even recognized the possibility, he’d have burnt worlds to stop that, too.

His Queen Administrator’s host… she was no different than he had once been. Willing to do anything to stop her own kind’s extinction. Willing to burn worlds to save her father.

He did not know if she was like him, or if he was like her. But she was willing to do anything, and he was unwilling to make himself extinct.

Perhaps she would be willing to do what he was not.

_Extinction._

* * *

Fluffy had been laying in the room for _hours._ Maybe it had been minutes. She didn’t really understand time properly.

The door opened. It opened more slowly than usual. She didn’t smell her David. But she smelled Tessie. That was good, right? Tessie was great. She always had treats.

Fluffy stood. Walked over to the door. Tilted her head.

Tessie seemed sad.

Tessie knelt. She wrapped her arms around Fluffy.

“I’m sorry, Fluffy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”


	18. Taylor’s Choice

When had he gotten so close?

I could feel the fire pulsating around me with my heartbeat— _thump thump, thump thump_ —as I took in Scion’s face, only inches from my own. It was as if he was attempting to look me in the eye, only instead of his eyes meeting mine, his mouth did. His beard was not made from hair, but instead was sculpted, as if his head were a solid chunk of gold and his face and beard had together been carved from it.

_Extinction,_ he had said. The Dinahs had said the same. I still didn’t understand what it meant, or if I did understand, I could not fathom it. The most powerful cape in the world was staring at me. Had _spoken_ to me. _Extinction_ was coming, and I was at the center, and it didn’t make sense. I was Taylor Hebert. Nothing special.

Nothing special. I couldn’t help but indulge the thought, even if I knew you’d have told me off for thinking it. It ought to have been a haunting notion; the kind my mind liked to indulge whenever I felt overwhelmed and just wanted to stop, to give up, to end.

Instead, it only brought my thoughts back to where all of this had begun. Back to all those stories I had read. Back to Harry, always so unwilling to admit he was anything other than normal. Was I nothing special? Or was I like the Harrys from the stories? Something more, but never willing to see it?

Absurd. Why was I thinking about Harry Potter? People were dying, even now, if not from the creature that had absorbed them, then from the fire _I_ had used to burn it. Leviathan had probably injured or killed more still. And then there was Dad. I still didn’t know if he was safe…

And Scion. Why had he spoken? Why to me? As if he could tell my attention had drifted back to him, he spoke once more:

“ _Concordant_.”

Was I hearing his voice? Was it a low rumble? Was it a quiet whisper? I could not tell. It was both and neither.

Concordant? For all my vocabulary studies, I was unfamiliar with the word. Somehow, I still understood the meaning, but I didn’t understand how he could think me in any way similar himself. He was _Scion_. He might as well have been a god.

But there was something more. Something familiar about him. Something I didn’t want to see. Something I didn’t want to remember.

Others might call it sadness. But to me, it felt less like sadness and more like emptiness, or a tiredness, or like nothing at all. Or perhaps it felt like impossibility. Inconceivability. The very notions of feeling and caring fading away, sometimes only slightly, and sometimes until the concept would appear unimaginable.

Why would a god feel such things? Why would he feel something so human?

“ _Crushed_ ,” he said.

His mouth moved wrongly to the word, only going through the motions. His mouth didn’t pucker for the ‘r,’ his teeth didn’t close for the ‘sh.’

I still heard the word.

I still felt it.

I—

You—

I felt the breath leave my lungs. A wetness around my eyes. My hand reached back behind me as if to find something on which to brace myself, but there was only air.

_Concordant._

“Mom.”

I didn’t know why I said it. Didn’t I? But then, maybe I did. I’d said it for the same reason Scion had said _Crushed._ A feeling raised to the point of overflow, until something had to escape.

I needed you there. Whatever Scion wanted, I needed you there with me. There was still a choice to be made, there was still extinction yet to come, and I didn’t know what to do, and I needed you. But you weren’t there. As much as I might have tried to pretend otherwise these past few years, as many times as I may have spoken to you as if you were right beside me and as if you were in my head, you never were. You were never there.

Why weren’t you there?

I needed—

I took a step back, and another, more stumbles than steps. My breath was shaking, and I felt myself crying, but there was no time for tears, Scion was across from me, and extinction was coming, and here I was, _Crushed…_

I tried to focus on my breathing. In… two… In… two… I— It was just numbers, just counting, why was it so hard? The fire swirled around me tumultuously, its pulsating rhythm chaotic and uncomfortable—

Over its roaring chaos, I tried to hear people moving. Rubble being shifted. Voices talking. Tried to count people. One. Two. Four. Eight. Most of them capes. Some villains. Most heroes. Miss Militia, pulling a body out of the remains of the creature I’d burned. Alive? It was moving, but for how long—

But still, my eyes returned to him.

Scion.

“ _Extinction,_ ” he said.

And this time I understood what he meant, and something seemed to sink within my chest, falling into a void of terrifying sadness-yet-not-sadness.

Scion’s hand lifted to his chest. He grabbed the cloth he wore; it stretched and tore at his grip, and as he pulled, it tore off him altogether. His hand dropped to his side, and after a moment, the torn shreds of fabric fell to the ground.

The golden god stood before me, now naked. His eyes now met mine properly, and solid gold though they were, they felt like something more.

I shook my head side to side. _No,_ I tried to say, but I didn’t know how.

Again, his hands lifted to his chest. He moved them about one another in a circular motion, forming a globe, and inside the globe of his hands, a globe of light began to form, made from the same golden glow his body constantly exuded.

The golden globe swirled and twisted with a rhythmic pulsation, and I felt my own fire matching it— and then I realized I was not matching its rhythm, but it was matching mine. _Thump thump, thump thump._

Scion nodded slightly. Then spread his hands apart.

The streams of light separated from each other, and the globe grew, and within it was something else. An image. Dark, but not dark.

A portal, I realized, but not quite a portal. Perhaps it was a hundred portals, or a thousand, or a million, all intertwined upon each other. The image through it was echoey and strange, undulating and twisting with the same _thump thump._

In a way, the image resembled Scion himself. But it was as if viewed through a kaleidoscope, fractalized through a hundred oblique angles all at once. It reminded me of a spider’s web. Less an entity in its own right, and more a connective tissue.

Was it what held Scion together? It felt so open: millions of points laid bare through millions of portals, all brought together into one physical space before me. Vulnerable. Breakable. As if it would take so little to shatter it forever, to shatter _him_ —

“ _Extinction,_ ” he said, again, and I knew what he wanted.

“No,” I said. “I can’t.”

I couldn’t. I couldn’t kill him. Of course I couldn’t. I couldn’t crush that kaleidoscope; couldn’t shatter that fractal; couldn’t burn that web of tissue that held him together.

I couldn't— I had to—

He wanted to die.

There had to be something I could do. Something I could say. Some way to help him, to fix him, to fix _this_. What would you tell me to do? I didn’t know. Did it matter? _I_ was the one who would have to do it. I’d ha—

I saw it out of the corner of my eye just as I felt it with my bugs: a blur of black. I’d seen it before, just after escaping Bakuda, just after Kaiser had threatened me. It was headed towards—

No!

“Protego!” I screamed, diving forward. My desperation pushed the scales out of me faster than ever before; my fire turned an angry white as the shields of hard light formed in an instant and Vicky’s forcefield lit up with a visible blue shimmer.

An instant before Alexandria could hit Scion—before she could shatter that fragile web of tissue he’d laid so open—I hit her. She tumbled away screaming something, her costume aflame, and hit the ground in a roll. She rolled an extra time or two to put out the flames, her costume still mostly intact.

She leapt to her feet. Her eyes moved from me to Scion and back, just as mine moved from him to her and returned.

Why had she attacked him? I felt myself scan the intersection we were in, looking to see if anyone else was as surprised as me. I’d forgotten we were here. Forgotten everyone else was here. Miss Militia, her eyes wide, weapons cycling in her hand; Hellhound atop one of her massive dogs, head tilted to the side in puzzlement. PRT agents— I recognized one, with her pretty eyes; was her name Melinda? Her face was one of puzzled alarm.

Did they understand what Scion wanted? Had they felt what I had? Even if they had, and even if they did, they still did not understand why Alexandria had attacked. And neither did I.

Didn’t I? Maybe I did. Scion was asking for his own extinction. What was he willing to do to secure it?

“He’s going to destroy the world, Taylor,” said Alexandria, as if reading my thoughts. “Destroy _everything._ It’s what he was always going to do.”

My eyes drifted back to Scion. He stood, seemingly passively, but his eyes pleaded with me.

“No,” I said. “There has to be something else. Some other way. Some way to fix him—”

“You can’t fix _him_ ,” said Alexandria. “He’s not even human.”

Wasn’t he? He might not look human. Might not act human. But he felt human. Human enough in that, human or not, he still felt, and I still understood.

“But there has to be—”

Scion raised a hand, the glowing orb with its strange fractalized portal still hovering before his chest, still thrumming with the _thump thump_ of my heartbeat.

He pointed skyward.

I looked up. I saw others do the same.

The clouds had vanished. There was only blue, and the sun.

And then, just by the first, another sun appeared.

And then everything disappeared. The sky, the suns, everything. My senses had been replaced.

Dark. Stillness. And then: Earth. Many Earths. Thousands of cities on each. And in each sky, whether day or night, hovered that same sun.

But it wasn’t a sun. It was energy. A blast, ready to strike. Ready to destroy everything. I saw them impact, one then another then another, cities and countries and planets, all destroyed, all brought to—

“ _Extinction._ ”

I heard his voice, and this time, I was sure, everyone did. Everyone on the battlefield. Maybe everyone everywhere. Could he actually destroy everything, just like that, all at once? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d have to hit one city at a time. But what was the difference, if he still hit every city?

The end would still be the same. The end of all things.

It couldn’t be real. It didn’t _feel_ real. The prospect of extinction felt like impossibility. It was not conceivable; the very notion unimaginable.

“Don’t,” I said. “You don’t need to do this. You can… You’ve done so much good, you know?”

Hadn’t he done? He’d saved cats from trees and driven off Endbringers. He’d been a proper hero. There was so much more he could still be.

There had to be something I could say. Something I could do. I didn’t know how I could bring myself to—

Alexandria rushed forward again, and again I stepped forward to meet her.

“Wait! Just wait— there has to be something, there has to be—”

Scion’s hand shot outwards. Was this it? Was everything going to be destroyed? Had I made the wrong choice already?

And then a body flew into my field of vision. It dropped at my feet. A man.

He shook his head dazedly. “What—”

_Dad._ Scion had brought my Dad from wherever he’d been hiding. Had he used telekinesis? Did it matter? Dad was alive—

“Burn,” said Scion.

_Burn._ The word meant so many things. It was an order, a command to burn the god before me. It was a threat: that if I did not burn him, he would instead burn everything. Burn the world. Burn Dad.

And it was a memory. A memory of my own thoughts, not half an hour ago: that I would burn the world myself, if only to keep my Dad safe. I’d said it to myself. Promised it. And now Scion was here, waiting for me to deliver.

_This_ was the choice I had to make. And I couldn’t bare to make it. Burning Scion felt like burning myself, but if I didn’t burn the world that was him, he’d burn the world that was mine.

I looked down at Dad. He’d gotten to his feet. He was shorter than me. Had I grown so much? Or was it Lung’s power? I wanted to think about that, instead of this… I could just make out my Dad looking up at me, his face in that expression of concern I always hated. But right now, I didn’t hate it.

My eyes searched his for an answer, but none came.

There had to be another way, hadn’t there?

_Ninety three point two percent chance you make the wrong choice._

But there wasn’t.

No other way. No clever escape. No other choice I could make.

I couldn’t fix him.

“Do I,” I said, trying my hardest to look at Scion. Why was it so hard? “Do I have to do it?”

He weighed me. A wave of shame washed over me, and it mixed with my own, the two intertwining into something almost overwhelming. And then, the shame gave way to dejection, and then to resignation.

Scion did not speak. Instead, he shook his head. I thought I might have seen a tear in his eye—

Alexandria struck.

The connective tissue broke. The shards it held together broke free, separating almost like shattered glass. They left behind nothing, and then, even that nothingness vanished as the shifting, kaleidoscopic portal collapsed.

Behind it, where Scion should have been, now was only streets and buildings and rubble and people.

He was gone.

Alexandria stood off to the side. She looked at me. I wished she wouldn’t. She thought she understood. She didn’t.

Behind her, a traffic light shifted from red to green. Still working. All of that, all of this, and it kept on going.

My body felt weak. Chilled, in spite of the warm flame surrounding me. Not from the cold air, I realized, but from relief, as I breathed breaths that were somehow disbelieving, somehow expecting more still to happen, but also somehow understanding that the time for violence and terror had passed.

I knelt and reached for what was left of my robe. Tried to squeeze the fabric. Tried to feel the smoothness. But it was no longer smooth.

Dad coughed. I stood, and looked at him, again. I was still taller, but only barely. Would I continue to shrink, or was I now my normal height? I didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. He was here. That mattered.

He was here. The world was here. I was here.

He held a large blanket. Behind him stood Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and Melinda—Melinda _had_ been her name, I reflected, as I reread the patch on her jacket—and behind them, PRT cars, the ugly blue Crown Victorias with the ugly red stripes. They made me think of Vicky. Where was Vicky?

I reached for the blanket, my fire still burning, still _thump-thumping_. I didn’t want it to burn the blanket. I thought it still might. But it didn’t.

I draped the blanket around myself. Let the flames drop.

Looked at Dad.

Tried to speak.

Instead, I took a step forward, and wrapped my blanket-covered arms around him as best I could. His arms pulled tight around me as well, and as awkward as my grip might have been, his was anything but.

After a long moment we released each other.

Again I looked around the intersection. From Miss Militia, who I felt was smiling at me, to Armsmaster, who I knew was, with a sad sort of supportive smile that I’d normally find infuriating. Over to the monster, and the bodies still being pulled from it. How big had it been? It hadn’t looked so big before, but then, _I’d_ been big.

Another body. Another. Most of New Wave. Were they alive? I opened my mouth, but was not sure what to say.

Amy jogged up to me. I could see the lines of worry on her face, echoes of the wrinkles upon her mother’s. She held out a hand, and I took it reflexively.

“Do you want to help?” she asked. “Heal, I mean.”

A small, weak smile broke across my face, and I gripped her hand tighter. I could not trust myself to know how I was feeling. I could rarely really tell. But Amy, with her hand on mine, could tell for me; could feel it in my heartbeat; could see it write itself across my brain. She waited for my answer.

“Yeah.”

And we did.

I healed Carol. She healed Sarah. I healed Eric. She healed Mark. Toxins, burns, some broken bones.

Vicky’s burns were worse. Amy and I worked on her together. As she woke and saw us, her aura flared briefly, only to fade back away as quickly as it had come.

We dug through the carcass until we found Dinah. She was so small. Her body was covered with burns, and the toxins had interacted poorly with drugs to which she’d been addicted. Amy healed what she could, but part of the addiction was in her brain. Amy didn’t touch the brain, and although I did not know her reason, I dared not use her power to do so, either.

Buried deep within the monster were the Travelers. A couple were alive. More were dead. They must have been among the first absorbed, even before Dinah and Eidolon. What had happened? I’d probably never know. They had been near the creature’s center, where the fire had concentrated itself the most strongly. We didn’t know who was who, but we healed who we could. A boy, and a girl.

Finally, we stepped away. There was little left of the carcass. Connective tissue, only. Almost like Scion. I winced a melancholy smile.

New Wave had lived. So too had a handful of Coil’s mercenaries, though dozens more had not. Four of the Travelers had died. Five if the monster herself had been one. Perhaps even Coil himself was dead. Amy and I wouldn’t recognize his body.

And Eidolon… I’d hoped I was wrong. That he’d lived, somehow.

I looked up from his body. Up to Amy. She was staring at me. Was she concerned? Sad? Exhausted? I wouldn’t blame her, regardless. Neither of us had slept in over twenty four hours. None of New Wave had.

I held out a hand, and she took it. As soon as we touched, I could feel her exhaustion mix with my own. But perhaps together, it could be bearable.

My hand tugged on hers. I pulled her along, over to where Dad stood, along with Vicky, Mark, and Carol. They all looked tired, and this time, I knew it wasn’t only my own tiredness making it seem so.

Uncertainly, I stretched out the arm not holding Amy’s hand. A half-smile, half-question tugged at my face. They all opened their arms in turn.

Not even Amy fought the embrace.


	19. Nineteen Days Later

I hadn't even had breakfast yet, but I once again found myself lost within the pointless escape of fiction. Was it pointless? The story took place after Harry’s fifth year, as so many did, and Harry was filled with angst, like Harrys often were. And the circumstances were contrived, sure: the Dursleys had died in a car accident—what else would they have died in?—and Harry had to be adopted by someone else. Not Snape, this time, nor Dumbledore or even McGonnagal, but instead, the Grangers. Hurt and comfort and family, in a way I’d rarely seen before.

The story ended. He didn’t fight Voldemort. The story wasn’t about that. It ended where it should have, and for all I longed for more, I knew it would only take away, and I’d enjoyed it too much to have it be any less.

And, if I’d enjoyed the story… perhaps it hadn’t been so pointless, after all.

I laid the tablet upon my bedside table. Another gift from Armsmaster. He’d dropped by a couple of times. Hopefully, he’d be over this evening, as well. We’d invited everyone. Well, New Wave, Armsmaster, and Miss Militia, anyway. Miss Militia was a bit of a long shot. I’d still not met her properly, even in the aftermath of the battle. But we invited her anyway. Hopefully she’d show.

For a bit, I laid in bed. Today wasn’t a bad day. Not yet, anyway. Not that I hadn’t had a few over the past few weeks. Most had been mild. A couple less so. I was getting better at asking for help, whether from Dad or my therapist, from Amy or Vicky, or from Carol or from Mark. Still, I didn’t like feeling as if I needed it. I was not alone, even without yo—

I shook my head and laughed a small, nostalgic laugh as I stared up at the ceiling. Above me, once more, was that stain. Orange juice. We were in our own home once again.

I’d decided against being a Ward. The PRT hadn’t managed to protect Dad, after all. And besides, there weren’t many who wanted to fight me, anymore. Instead, I was joining New Wave. I was pretty much a member already. We just needed to pick a date for a proper announcement.

We’d given Dad a half-dozen ways to contact New Wave in case of emergency, and a dozen more to contact me personally in case he found himself unable to use those. With Amy’s help, I’d even placed bugs beneath his skin. Gross, but they worked. If he got hurt, or even felt too afraid, I’d know.

I pulled myself out of bed. Perhaps I could make a quick sketch before breakfast. I’d been doing my pen drawings, again, just for fun, and a bit of fun might not be a bad idea. It was Sunday, after all. Emma always tried to call after breakfast on Sundays. Dad had asked if I wanted to block her number, but sometimes I answered her. I still wondered if there was something I could say— but I could think about it later.

I was halfway over to my desk when the doorbell rang.

“I’ve got it,” I heard Dad yell.

I glanced to my desk. Then my bedroom door. Might as well head downstairs. My feet shook the steps with each fall, one then the next, one then the next, one then the next, each resonating deeply throughout the house.

The sun was shining through the windows, their curtains open wide. The smell of bacon mixed itself with the fresh May morning air, and together, they brought a smile to my face.

As I reached the foot of the stairs, I saw, of all things, a dog. A very fluffy, very white dog that looked less like a puppy and more like a cloud, and which I was sure I’d seen before. It was sniffing the air, salivating at the smell of the bacon.

“Hello, Mr. Hebert, Taylor,” said a woman whose voice I did not recognize.

“This is a stupid idea,” said another, whose voice I did. Alexandria. I grimaced slightly. I’d once wanted to be her. But not anymore. I’d never properly met her, in spite of seeing her twice in person, but even so, I didn’t think liked her. I knew why, but I didn’t quite know how to say it. She felt _callous,_ maybe?

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” said the first woman, awkwardly straightening her slightly baggy Alexandria t-shirt. I wondered if she was a cape, but if she was, she wasn’t in costume. The actual Alexandria, meanwhile, _was_ in costume.

“I’m sorry about Alexandria, Mr. Hebert,” continued the woman in the Alexandria shirt. “She’s not always very nice. I’ve been trying to get her to work on it, but she’s kind of stubborn. May we come in? Alexandria can wait outside.”

She gave the hero a pointed look. Alexandria sighed, and gave the dog a little scratch on the head, and then a pat. Hesitated. Turned away.

“Oh,” said Dad. “I… sure? And there’s no need for Alexandria to—”

The strange woman’s pointed look turned to Dad. For a moment, he stared her down. Then he turned to me. He must have heard me come downstairs. Then again, with my feet banging against the steps, how could he have missed it?

“I’m sure there’s enough breakfast for her,” I said, after a moment. If there wasn’t, we could make some. I might not like Alexandria very much, but as much as I disliked her, I didn’t think much of that dislike was rooted in anxiety, and I wasn’t about to let dislike alone leave her standing alone on our porch, no matter how lovely May mornings were in Brockton Bay.

We gathered around the kitchen table, each in our different chairs. I allowed myself a small amount of schadenfreude as Alexandria got the uncomfortable one with the stiff back. The dog sat between the strange woman and I, its intent gaze continuously shifting from her to the table and back again.

“Her name’s Fluffy,” said the woman, giving the dog a scratch on its cheek. Fluffy? She didn’t look like a Fluffy. Too small, and only one head.

“And I’m Contessa,” she continued. “And you can call Alexandria ‘Lexie.’ It’s her favorite.”

“‘Alex’ will do,” said Alexandria quickly. She nibbled at a bite of bacon.

“You might recognize Fluffy,” said Contessa. “Do you mind if I give her a bite or two?”

Dad shrugged and looked at me, not realizing I’d done the same and looked at him. Contessa took that as permission, and after a quick trick—“Sit! Shake!”—gave Fluffy a small bite of bacon.

I tried to place where I’d seen Fluffy before. When had I— oh! All those posts on PHO. The pictures had been very sweet.

“She was Eidolon’s,” I said. “Are you— is she yours, now?”

“That’s the question,” said Contessa, chewing her food as she talked. “I… hm. I’m not sure how to— I mean… I’m not used to this. I have a power, you know? A really good one. I win. Whatever I try to do, with some exceptions, I win.”

She gave me a glare I didn’t understand. I glanced at Dad, who seemed no less befuddled than me, and then to Alexandria, who looked mildly amused, in that way one did when they didn’t want to appear it.

“You _were_ an exception,” Contessa continued. “It’s a precognitive power. _The_ precognitive power, really. If there’s any possible way for me to get what I want, anything I could possibly do, I’ll know the steps, and be able to perform each one perfectly. But it didn’t work on Endbringers, and didn’t work on Scion, and since Scion was interested in you, it often didn’t work on you, either.”

I suddenly felt a little uncomfortable.

“Then… what do you want?” I asked. “Right now, I mean?”

Contessa chose that moment to take a bite. Had her power chosen it? Why would it? I wasn’t sure I understood, and perhaps I was overthinking it. Her eyes widened, as if she had only belatedly understood the question, and in a rush to swallow her food, she briefly choked upon it.

She pounded her chest with her fist a couple of times, took a giant sip of water, then continued.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I’m not using my power right now. I mean, I’m not using it for this. I’m not really used to talking like this. I’m sorry. I can use it, if you’d like?”

She looked almost like she hoped we would say yes. But I’d searched for excuses often enough myself to recognize the signs in her, and there’d likely been a reason she had chosen not to use her power today.

“No,” I said. “That’s alright.”

“Stupid,” muttered Alexandria. I pretended I didn’t hear her.

“I know you know how to be nice,” said Contessa. “I’ll activate a _path to Alexandria being polite_ if I have to.”

“Is step one _threatening_ to find a path to make me nice?” asked Alexandria, a touch mockingly.

Contessa ignored her, and took a sip of her orange juice. After a moment, she seemed to realize we were all waiting for her to continue.

“Right, well. I thought— well, I mean. Fluffy. She needs a home, and I was thinking. Dav— I mean, Eidolon. Well, I mean, don’t tell anyone—”

Alexandria sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Eidolon’s name was David,” said Alexandria. Fluffy’s ears perked up. She looked to Alexandria, and I felt something threaten to break in me. My hand immediately found its way to her ear. She was so soft…

“Don’t tell anyone,” Alexandria continued, her words inflectionless. “Contessa wasn’t supposed to tell you. Contessa, David, and I, along with a few others, spent our lives looking for a way to defeat Scion, as he was going to eventually destroy Earth. _All_ Earths. We made sacrifices you’d hate us for making, just as you already hate me. I’d thank you not to judge, as existence was in the balance, and I only ever told you the truth—you _couldn’t_ fix him—but perhaps such understanding is beyond you.”

She spoke in a monotone, one word after the next, as if she were bored and unfeeling, or as if she did have feelings, but refused to acknowledge them. I’d have felt sympathetic were it not for the last jab, but then, maybe that had been why she’d made it: she didn’t _want_ sympathy.

“In any case, you succeeded where we would have failed, even if you did not intend to, and you did so without making such unpleasant sacrifices. Contessa viewed this as a symbol of ‘hope,’ the ‘same hope,’ she said, as Fluffy inspired in David. And here we are. A stupid idea.”

She couldn’t bring herself to meet my eyes. Instead, she seemed focused on Fluffy.

I glanced at Contessa. She shrugged.

“It seemed fitting,” she said. “To me, at least.”

I was missing something. I could feel Dad looking at me, but I wasn't sure what he was looking for, so I looked at Fluffy instead of meeting his gaze. I gave her a little scratch on the head, then another as she looked up at me, her mouth hanging open with a pleased sort of smile that may also have been anxious— but then, perhaps the anxiousness was mine.

“I’d been thinking about it already, you know,” said Dad, after a moment. “Could be good for you, Taylor.”

I tore my gaze from Fluffy, and looked at Dad rather quizzically.

“A dog, Taylor,” he said, rather slowly. “Fluffy.”

Oh. I was usually much more quick on the uptake, but today, I had a dog distracting me. Fluffy, staying with us? A smile crossed my face at the thought.

“We always called her Fidolon, you know,” said Contessa.

“David hated it,” said Alexandria, with a small laugh before she could stop herself.

“Don’t worry about food or anything, and can I swing by sometimes?” said Contessa, half a statement and half a question. “And Lexie, too, if you don’t find her _too_ annoying? She loves Fluffy, you know.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude—” started Alexandria, but I cut her off.

“Of course,” I said. Alexandria and Contessa were obviously part of Fluffy’s family. The thought that Dad and I would take even more away from her— sorrow gnawed at me at the thought, warring with a feeling of insult.

I sighed, then collected myself and fixed Alexandria with my sternest impression of Minerva McGonnagal. “You will visit at least twice weekly, if not more often, is that understood?”

She looked at me incredulously for a moment, but I did not drop my glare, and it gave her the excuse she needed to nod in assent. I shifted my gaze to Contessa—

The phone rang.

I grimaced. Glanced at my eggs, only half eaten. Usually we’d finished breakfast by the time she called.

“Taylor,” said Dad, but he didn’t know quite what to say next. “Do you want to…”

“I don’t know,” I said. I let myself scratch Fluffy, again. “No, I guess.”

Dad nodded, and left the room. The house phone was in the hall.

Both our guests looked confused, but Alexandria was trying not to ask. Apparently she _could_ be polite, after all.

“Who was it?” asked Contessa. Apparently she had no such filter.

I started to speak, but stopped short, not quite sure what I’d been planning to say. A friend? An enemy? A traitor? I took a breath.

“Emma,” I said. “She was a friend, once. But now… Well, I don’t really know. She did a lot of mean things to me. She’s why I… Um, yeah.”

I didn’t feel comfortable completing the sentence. I doubted many capes would. Both Alexandria and Contessa seemed to know what I meant. Alexandria looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it.

Dad returned to the room. Gave me a nod. I sighed.

“We should just block the number,” said Danny. “Or tell Alan to stop her calling. I don’t think you should—”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just feel like there’s something… something I should say. I don’t know.”

We’d been so close, once.

The day had been going so well. And really, it probably still would. I’d be seeing Amy for lunch, and then the rest of New Wave in the afternoon. And then the big dinner, with all of them and Armsmaster and maybe even Miss Militia; I still didn’t know how we’d all fit, but I knew we’d find a way.

It would be a busy day, and maybe even a good one. But right now, with Emma’s call—

Fluffy licked at my fingers as the sounds of conversation washed over me. I found myself smiling at the sensation, if only just a little. The dog couldn’t fix what I was feeling. But then, maybe she didn’t need to.

* * *

“I can’t fix Emma, either,” I said. “Can I?”

Amy and I had a table against the windows, sandwiched just a bit too closely between two other two-person tables. I’d chosen the side across from the windows. I’d have preferred the one against it, from which I’d have been able to see the whole place, but with only a small gap between the tables it would have left me feeling trapped.

“No,” said Amy. “You can’t _fix_ people, Taylor.”

My eyes closed for a moment as I felt something fall within me. Was this disappointment? Had I wanted to fix Emma so badly? I wasn’t sure. Somehow, she didn’t seem so important. It wasn’t about her, was it?

I sighed.

“You can’t fix me, either,” I said. Amy flinched. Was it resentment I saw in her eyes, again? “None of you.”

Her eyes fell to the table. She fiddled with her noodles. Poked at her pork. Her other hand scratched at a rough dent in the table’s wood.

“We’re not trying to ‘fix’ you,” she said. “I— I don’t know. It’s not like that, okay?”

I took a bite of my eggplant. Tried to understand. Didn’t manage it.

“What is it like, then?” I asked.

“We just— we _like_ you, or whatever. Care for you, I guess,” she said. “Want to be here.”

I blinked at her. She sighed.

“I _can_ do brains. You’ve noticed, I’m sure,” said Amy, that look of resentment crossing her face again. “Vicky and Mom don’t really understand, I think. They wish I’d ‘fix’ Dad. But anything I did, it wouldn’t be ‘fixing’ him. It would be killing him, and making someone new. I _can’t_ fix him. I can only change him.

“I don’t mean he can’t change over time on his own. Or that medicine can’t help him. It does. But that’s still _him_. What I do, though? That’s _me_. I— I don’t know how to explain.”

I reached a hand out to her. She reached a hand back. That resentment grew louder. I’d thought, once, that she’d resented _me_ ; that she’d felt I had somehow compared myself to her dad. But it hadn’t been me she’d resented, had it?

“But you’re there for him,” I said.

“I— we try to be,” she said. “It’s… complicated, I guess. Sometimes we don’t know how. I try to learn. I don’t know.”

I tried to take another bite of my food. Tried to get a nice helping of the curry. Instead, I just poked around the pieces of eggplant.

“Shouldn’t I be there for Emma?” I asked.

“I dunno. Maybe,” said Amy. “If you could, I guess. Can you?”

This time, _my_ eyes fell to the table. Finally, I managed to bring another bite to my mouth. I was trying to be better about eating. More consistent, anyway.

“You can’t fix everyone, either, you know,” I said, as I chewed my food— never mind that it wasn’t polite. I felt myself smirk slightly at the thought of what yo— but then, that was a thought for another time.

“At the hospital, I mean,” I continued. “You can’t be there for all of them. You need to take care of yourself, too.”

Amy sighed. She rolled her eyes half-heartedly, as she sometimes did.

“Eat your eggplant, dumbass,” she said. “Asked James out, yet?”

“Eat your noodles, dumbass,” I said.

“So, dinner?”

“A lot of people,” I said. “Not a lot of space.”

“You don’t have to talk, you know,” said Amy. “If you don’t want to. Vicky will be there, after all.”

“But they’re my friends. You’re all my friends,” I said. “It’s important to talk with friends.”

“It can be,” Amy allowed. She pushed her plate away. “Library?”

How could I say no to the library? It was no longer my only refuge, but it was still a fixture.

I glanced at my own plate. I hadn’t quite finished everything, but I’d done a decent job of it, and I supposed I’d not in fact be lying to myself if I said I’d have a large dinner. Still…

“Make sure I eat plenty tonight?” I asked Amy.

“Of course.”

* * *

Everyone and our new dog showed up. Even Contessa and Alexandria. I hadn’t realized Dad had invited them— but then, of course he would have.

“Call me Tessie,” said Contessa, after only her first glass of wine. “Tessie the bestie. Yeah.”

I finally got to say hello to Miss Militia— or, as she’d introduced herself, _Hannah._

“I already know almost everyone, anyway,” she said. “And I can’t eat with the bandanna on.”

After his third glass of wine, Armsmaster had tried to give me some of his own blood. “Gotta see what will happen with a Tinker power sometime,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

I might have accepted, had I a stick prepared to soak it up. I wasn’t about to absorb his blood into my hands— and, tipsy as he was, I was half-afraid Armsmaster would tell me to _drink_ it.

For dessert there was cake. It consumed half of our poor table, around which we’d managed to cram a third of our guests, most on folding chairs the Dallons had brought; the rest were in the living room, half on yet more chairs, a few more on the couch, and the rest seated upon the floor, all their voices loud and merry and full of laughter.

The cake was chocolate, vanilla, and cookie-dough ice cream, and was frosted with a veritable rainbow of colors in no particular pattern. Fitting, as there was no particular occasion, but then, all of us here together was occasion enough.

Amy and Dad gave me a heaping slice. I wasn’t sure how I’d finish it. But soon enough, it vanished, and with it, so too did the rest of the evening.

Everyone got their hugs in, some more than once. Hannah had gone for thirds.

The night was only missing— but, it would always be missing— well. I smiled slightly at the thought I wasn’t quite ready to have, bittersweet though it may have been.

Busy, stressful, exhausting…

But still, it was alright. Wasn’t it? Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was wonderful.

* * *

I’ve been forgetting about you, lately. Talking with you less and less. Probably a good thing. You’d have wanted me to have my own life, and to be my own person. But maybe this time, what you’d have wanted is beside the point.

As much as I might pretend otherwise, it’s not been you guiding me these past few years. You lost that ability when you died and shifted into memory and thought and emotion, your form so often colored by what I wanted to believe more than anything you might have actually said or done.

I still remember the things we did together. I hope I never forget. Once, the memories would have hurt, and sometimes they still do. But other times, they bring smiles, here and there. Your little laughs. Your finger upon my nose. The snow angels we’d make on the floor in July, the stars we’d see upon the ceiling. How Dad had always said never to bring food and drink up to the bedrooms, but you always did it anyway, and then the one day he did it, orange juice ended up on the ceiling.

I remember the stories you told me, and I still wonder about those you didn’t. About why you knew so much about punching people, and how to escape zip ties. I should ask Dad. Shouldn’t I? Yeah, I probably should. He’d enjoy telling me a few of your stories, and maybe even some of his.

I remember you, and sometimes it hurts and sometimes it’s wonderful and sometimes it’s both. The tears come and I let them, whether because the tears are happy or sad or somewhere in between.

I still care what you’d think. Some part of me always will. That part of me will always wonder if you’d approve. If you’d be proud of me. Would you be? I don’t know. Can’t know, I suppose. Sometimes, though, _I’m_ proud.

This isn’t really goodbye, you know, and not just because I may see you again in some sort of afterlife. I’m sure I’ll talk to you again, even when you’re not there. I’m sure there will be times when I’ll use what I can convince myself you’d say as a deciding factor in how I ought lead my life, as much as I wish I could promise not to. But as those times grow fewer and fewer, I know you won’t begrudge me. Won’t think I don’t care.

This isn’t goodbye. It’s me saying that, yeah, I know I don’t have to keep talking with you, even if I still will, here and there.

It’s me saying I’ll do my best. I’ll keep trying. Not for Dad. Not for you. For me.

It’s me saying that I miss you, Mom. That I wish you were here, but I understand that you aren’t.

It’s me saying I love you.

I love you.

Your Daughter,

Taylor.


End file.
